


Tide-Water Dogs

by subluxate



Category: The Departed
Genre: Actually several cases, Canon-Typical Violence, Discussion of Torture, Drinking, F/M, Homophobia, M/M, Minor Violence, Other, Pretty much a novel, Queer Big Bang, Queer Big Bang: Round One, Referenced murder, Referenced violence, Sexual Content, Undercover, casefic, discussion of drug use, discussion of underage pornography (as part of a police investigation; non-explicit), long fic is long, referenced domestic violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-30
Updated: 2013-03-27
Packaged: 2017-12-06 16:26:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 30
Words: 67,910
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/737720
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/subluxate/pseuds/subluxate
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sean Dignam might be having a crisis of sexuality, but that doesn't mean life, and especially work, hit pause while he figures it out. He still has to help Captain Queenan run the undercover unit of the Boston branch of the Massachusetts State Police, testify against two people who worked for Frank Costello while Sean was undercover, and relearn how to actually interact with humanity, all while adjusting to the fact that he's not as straight as he once believed and figuring out how to have an actual serious relationship, with a guy no less. Takes place in 1998, well before canon and shortly after Dignam gets out of working undercover.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [](http://queer-bigbang.dreamwidth.org/profile)[**queer_bigbang**](http://queer-bigbang.dreamwidth.org/)'s first round. Thanks to [](http://five-steps-back.dreamwidth.org/profile)[**five_steps_back**](http://five-steps-back.dreamwidth.org/) and [](http://shipwreck-light.dreamwidth.org/profile)[**shipwreck_light**](http://shipwreck-light.dreamwidth.org/) for their wonderful beta jobs. Many, many thanks to [](http://five-steps-back.dreamwidth.org/profile)[**five_steps_back**](http://five-steps-back.dreamwidth.org/) for her [amazing cover art](http://alice-fell-through.dreamwidth.org/1247.html), and to [](http://archiveofourown.org/users/anathemagerminabunt)**anathemagerminabunt** for her [awesome mix](http://geena.dreamwidth.org/387255.html).

Sean Dignam meets Robert Messer in May of 1998, and he throws his whole world off-kilter.

Robert’s tall, and not just by Sean-standards, but by average-height-guy standards—he comes in at six-three. He’s half-Hispanic, he’s eight years older than Sean, he has three younger sisters, he went to public school and then Rutgers in New Brunswick and got a degree in art history, then finished at NYU with an MFA, and now he’s working at one of the museums in Cambridge.

Knowing all this wouldn’t be a problem if, one, Sean wasn’t eight months out of undercover and still suspicious of every-fucking-one who crosses his path, and, two, he didn’t learn all this within the first hour of knowing Robert after a chance meeting at a coffee shop.

He’s lucky that they’re in Massachusetts. Boston, specifically, which might not be as liberal as New York or San Francisco or something but is pretty high up there. The baristas don’t look twice except to ask if either of them wants more to drink. Sean’s riding that bonus that made its way into his account and splurges, going for a third cup of coffee when they ask again, cream and no sugar even though he takes it black whenever he’s at the station. He’s working there now, an aboveboard cop; Queenan’s decided that he’s going to be his assistant or some shit, and really, Sean’s got no problem with it. He likes the guy, a whole hell of a lot. Frankly, it’s better than having to watch fucking Frank Costello’s guys extort and kill and pretend to play along. Plus, it means he doesn’t have to be a traffic cop or some bullshit job like that; he gets to stay a real cop and have a real job.

The other customers, they ignore them too. Not in a ‘don’t exist’ way, but in the casual way city dwellers everywhere have of ignoring everything around them if it doesn’t affect them. Safety mechanism, one Sean understands intimately but doesn’t—can’t—use himself.

“Do you want to go for a walk?” Robert asks him after he’s finished his coffee.

That one, that’s what gives him pause. First, they’re going to look ridiculous, since Sean is eight inches shorter than Robert. Second, there’s this thing he’s got going on where Robert is interesting and great to talk to and really fucking attractive with his red-tinted light brown hair, slightly darker skin than Sean’s, deep green eyes, and lips made for kissing and is, oh yeah, _a fucking man_.

Sean’s got no problem with gay people, on the surface. They do their thing, he does his, and they don’t exactly interfere with each other. Interests don’t really overlap in that area. Except right now, maybe they kind of do.

“Sure,” Sean’s mouth says without his brain really catching up to what it’s doing. “Yeah. Let’s go for a walk.” Apparently, his mouth missed the fact that he’s working on avoiding having to consider complicated things such as if he actually likes guys and has forever, or if this is a total fluke, a reaction to being undercover and not able to form relationships besides shallow things with women who wouldn’t ask any fucking questions.

This avoiding shit is really, really not working. Part of that’s because he and Robert are standing, and part of it’s because it’s fucking happening and his brain needs to just shut down and handle this one thing at a time. It could shut down and stay quiet until he had space to think for almost five years. He just needs it to do that now.

Which, of course, it fucking won’t because it’s gotten in the habit of doing what it fucking wants since he got out. Fucking brain.

“So what exactly do you do?” Sean asks. He’d shove his hands in his pockets for lack of things to do with them, except that’d show off the shoulder holster perfectly, and he really doesn’t feel like dealing with that shit, even if he’s got his badge with him at all fucking times now. He earned the damn thing well enough.

“I do a lot of things that are pretty boring to people who aren’t interested in art.” Robert laughs, and it makes his eyes kind of crinkle around the corners. He’s not a Rob, apparently, but a Robert. Fine with Sean, like his input fucking matters on the name of a guy he met a fucking hour before, but he still thinks it fits him better. “It varies from being sure our dates on pieces are accurate to writing material for audio tours.”

“You’re right,” Sean says bluntly. “Sounds boring.”

That gets Robert to laugh again, and that’s doing uncomfortable things to his insides. “What about you?”

Sean shrugs. He can say it now. “I’m a cop. Massachusetts State Police detective,” because fuck yeah, he took the test, passed it, nailed it. Like he doesn’t know the law and the street better than half the force, anyway. “I work in the undercover unit.”

“Now _that_ doesn’t sound remotely boring,” Robert says. “Exciting, actually. Does that mean you were undercover?”

Sean flashes him a grin, a real one, not a shark-mean one or a sharp, warning one. “Can’t talk about that.”

He laughs again. “You gave yourself away.”

“Maybe, but I’m not talking about it.” Part of that uncomfortable thing his insides are doing is, Sean realizes, pleasure at the laugh; the other part, though, the bigger part, is _comfort_ with the conversation, with the whole thing.

And it stays comfortable. They walk for another hour until Sean makes some excuse to go home, and then he finds himself trading numbers with Robert and making arrangements for supper on Thursday—eight. Sean does have leeway because his shrink says he’s supposed to be getting on a ‘normal human schedule’, whatever _that_ is, for a while, in between going from ‘crazy motherfucker’s organization’s schedule’ to ‘cop schedule’. Shrink didn’t put it that way, though. He doesn’t know where—Robert’s apparently going to make a reservation—“Nothing too fancy,” Sean tells him, because he might have the bonus but he doesn’t want to spend it all—and he’ll call him, let him know.

If he was the type to cry to his shrink about anything, they could spend a few weeks picking this shit apart. Since he’s not, and his sessions consist of about two minutes of answering questions and then forty-something of silence while Sean plays chicken to see if he can get out early and consistently loses, there’s no fucking way _that’s_ happening.

It’s going to be him and a couple of longneck friends, because the fuck, he made a date. With a man. That bears repeating: the first date he has back in real life is with a man, when he’s never had a date with a man, or even a thought—

Okay, that’s a lie, and one he’s going to have to think about more with those Buds. That mantra about avoiding self-deception is too drilled into his head, courtesy of Queenan, for him to ignore it.

“Thursday,” he says where he and Robert are parting, Sean for the T and Robert to get his car. Art history apparently pays better than being a cop, which is such a real fucking surprise.

Robert nods and gives Sean a smile that does strange things to his chest. Fuck, he’s so fucked. He needs those beers. “I’ll call by Tuesday.”

“All right,” and then Sean doesn’t know what else to say, so he walks toward the T stop.

He does pay attention to his surroundings, unlike most city people. Most city people don’t have to.

Most city people don’t probably have a price on their head courtesy the Irish mob. Costello’s still pissed at him personally, not that Sean blames him. He’s gotten a couple of people at least remanded, waiting on Nashua Street. Unfortunately, Costello himself is not one of them, and neither is French. He still made a dent, even if it’s fucking small He didn’t get shot. Queenan says that’s enough to count, especially when it comes to Costello’s small, divided crews.

So he pays attention on his walks, from leaving Robert to the T, the T to his apartment, and on the T and in the stations, too. That’s not as risky as the walks, though, thanks to the crowds on the T.

He gets up to his apartment and pulls his gun before he unlocks the door. Basic fucking precaution right now. Checks every room, and then relaxes; finds some leftover takeout and a couple beers in the fridge, decides it’s still cool enough out for hot food and dumps it on a plate that he pops into the microwave, and then he, his food, his beer, and his gun get comfortable in the parlor. It’s simple paranoia to keep his gun out—the apartment is clear, windows are closed, door is locked—but enough is fucking with his head tonight to make the paranoia excusable.

He makes his way through the lo mein, sweet and sour pork, and half a beer before he lets it start soaking into his mind. Treat it like a case, break it into pieces and then put together the conclusion. Make it easier that way.

Fact one: He spent two hours with Robert this afternoon, one in a coffee shop and one walking. Both hours were spent talking with very little silence.

Fact two: He’s extremely interested in what Robert says, all of it, from anecdotes about his youngest sister to some work story involving a vase and some kids who broke away from their class on a trip.

Fact three: He thinks Robert is attractive.

Fact four: He has an actual, true-to-God _date_ with Robert on Thursday night.

And then the background evidence on the suspect, the little things from the past fifteen, sixteen years of having a sex drive actively interested in others. How sometimes, at the movies, he’ll spend a little more time thinking about the actors than the actresses, even during sex scenes. How he thought a little too much, too detailed, about Rose Freeman’s brother Kevin instead of Rose herself, back when he was a teenager. How, when he jerks off, it hasn’t always been to thoughts of girls, tits and blowjobs from lipsticked mouths and fucking cunt. Sometimes it’s turned to touching flat, hard bodies and rubbing up against another dick and—

So: Evidence shows the suspect, Sean Dignam, is not a straight motherfucker.

He drains the rest of the second beer and does his damnedest to not think about it any longer. Doesn’t work, of course; it’s like not thinking about those pink elephants in _Dumbo_. Once he tells himself not to, it’s the only thing in his mind.

Does he _want_ to be dating a guy? Does he want it to be a one-off thing? How the fuck’s he going to explain to Robert that he’s never fucking done this before either way? What happens after a first date with another man, anyway? A fucking kiss, fucking… what? There some kind of guide he can go to for this?

Groaning, he scrubs a hand over his face and gets up, grabbing his gun. He takes it in the bathroom with him and lays it on the counter before he strips, turning the water on hot. Unsurprisingly, he’s getting hard, all that thinking about what he’s going to do with another guy, he guesses.

Jesus. What he _is_. Not _might_ , not _could_ , but _is_ going to do. Fuck.

The not-straight thing, that’s not much of a problem. Or it probably won’t be once he gets the fuck over figuring it out, he thinks. Too fucking much thinking, that’s his problem. It’s the part where he’s a fucking _cop_ and most of the force doesn’t give a fuck about Massachusetts being a liberal state and all that shit. They give a fuck about having a fag on their side of the blue line. He wouldn’t be the only guy dating a guy if he does date Robert more than Thursday, he’s positive of that—sheer odds are in his favor—and he’s not too worried about the shit they might try to put him through (it’s only ‘might’ and not ‘will’ because there’s a fuck of a lot of respect from working Costello, and on top of that, he scares troopers on his own, or so say rumors and Queenan), but he’d like to know what the fuck kind of shit they might pull if they have the balls to do it, should it get out and it always fucking does. Gossip spreads through the department fast when it’s at all juicy, and, ‘That UC who hurt Costello’s fucking a guy,’ that’s real fucking juicy gossip, and he knows it. Christ. In some ways, his job’s like high school all over again. All jobs can be, he guesses.

But dating a guy, that’s not such a big deal in his head. Being interested in guys isn’t such a big deal, either. He’s seen a fuck of a lot worse than that, done a little when he absolutely fucking had to. Makes it clear this is actually completely neutral.

The shower’s got to be hot by now, and he’s soft again from thinking about all that other shit, which is a nice combination because maybe he’s dealing with the thing where he’s not as straight as he thought, but it doesn’t mean he’s ready to jerk off with that knowledge.

He sticks his gun under his pillow when he finally drops into bed after arguing himself in circles and getting fucking nowhere for another hour. That shower that was supposed to relax him, knock him out. It obviously didn’t work, and just as obviously didn’t solve anything, so he’s just going to fucking sleep on it, and fuck it if he’s being fucking paranoid. Not the first time he’s slept with steel in bed. Not the first time since he got out from undercover work, for that matter.

When Sean wakes up, it’s five-thirty in the morning, an hour he has not willingly been awake at since the academy. It’s sure as fuck not willing now.

He was dreaming. He had a dream about a guy who looked maybe like Robert and maybe shorter and maybe with different hair. But, thing is, it wasn’t just a dream. In it, the maybe-Robert guy was fucking him, and now he’s awake from the dream, and he’s hard as a fucking rock.

Shit.

He tries desperately to remember all the logic from the night before, how he laid out evidence about himself, how it fit, but no, goddammit, it’s gone. The logic’s left, and shit, logic and intuition are his fucking _job_ , how the fuck could they be _gone_?

His hand, this whole time while he’s having a very quiet breakdown, is stealing down his chest and toward his dick, and he’s maybe going to cut it off for its traitorousness. Instead, he slams it, fisted, into the mattress and heads for the bathroom.

In the shower, he does his damnedest to not think about the fucking dream while he strokes himself off.

It doesn’t work.

Gym, he decides when he’s out and shaved. He worked scruffy a lot when he was in with Costello. It made him look less cop, he thought, and since he was never suspected by Costello or his guys, it might have worked. But since he worked scruffy then, he’s never going to fucking go to work without shaving unless he gets an urgent call in the middle of the night.

So he goes for a long fucking run, and then he catches the T to near the department. When he gets there, he hits the department gym, pressing until sweat soaks through his shirt, his arms and legs ache, and his back and abdomen are pleasantly sore. It helps. It clears out some of the irritating fucking thoughts, the ones he couldn’t chase away before, the ones about the dream and the date and _what the fuck he’s not actually straight_. So the showers are like any other day he hits the gym and gets cleaned up, giving some of the other guys shit and getting some back, cleaning up, getting dressed, heading up to his office, the small one right by Queenan’s so they can work their undercovers easier together, check in with each other all day.

And he starts his day, which gives him very little time to think about it.

The day has no surprise raids, no issues with a UC, just a meeting with the ADA about his testimony, going over the harder questions—did he ever use, did he hurt people, did he get asked if he was a cop, did he coerce anyone into incriminating actions, and the answers are no, only if he absolutely had to, just once at the very start of things, and _fuck yourself lady_ , which he apparently can’t say on the stand—mixed in somewhere in there among the paperwork and conferring with Queenan over what to do about which undercover and which case for most of the rest of the day. When he leaves the building, his brain has apparently worked shit out again. He’s not trusting it this time, though, not with how it fucked him over the last time. He’ll do his own thinking instead of trusting the edges of his mind, thank you very fucking much, asshole.

It turns out he can have a silent crisis, since he does on his way home. It’s not surprising because of the whole undercover thing, where he had them all the fucking time, but it is because he’s a real cop now, even more of one because he can actually carry his badge and his real gun instead of whatever French got to them.

He’ll figure it out on his own. He’s not some pussy who needs help with shit. He’s not going to call up his sister if he can even find her fucking number, or talk to Queenan, or call the fucking shrink.

He doesn’t feel like bothering to try to cook with whatever’s in his fridge—he needs to go shopping again before that can happen, anyway—so he goes to this little takeout place that has the best clam chowder he’s ever tasted, thick and rich and full of clams and bacon and potatoes, and bread bowls to go with it. He gets two orders and tells himself he has to take a long run to make up for the extra calories, but what the fuck ever.

While he’s waiting for the pretty girl, maybe five years younger than him, to ladle the chowder into tall cups—Jesus, he forgot how big those are, maybe he’ll only have one after all, stick the other in the fridge for breakfast or something—he’s thinking about how cute she is, her blonde hair pulled back in a ponytail, that turned-up nose, the light freckles across the bridge of her nose and her cheeks. Some part of his mind, though, is also on the guy sitting in at the corner table, and it’s not because Sean’s on the lookout for anyone who might be dangerous, even though he is. It’s because the guy is good-looking, dark-haired and good build, great features, and Jesus fuck can’t his fucking brain wait for this until he gets home?

He smiles at the girl when she hands him the bag of food, thanking her and giving her a three-dollar tip on his eight-dollar meal, and then leaves, making a point of not looking toward that corner table.

He should have, though, but not because of the good-looking guy. There’s another guy, a table closer to the door, who gets up and follows Sean out, and he’s too fucking much in his own fucking head to process it the way he should, the way that means he switches his bag to his right hand to free his left to throw a punch or pin a suspect or, fuck, grab for his gun if he has to.

He should have because he failed to notice the haircut that motherfucking Fitzy sports, not to mention lack of neck. Fitzy, one of those fuckers who’s spent most his life with one of Costello’s crews, who’s fucking insane, who would probably have no qualms about shooting a cop who took down anyone with a hard-on for earning for Costello, even if that cop’s on a Boston street with plenty of civilians to witness things.

He doesn’t realize until he happens to glance at windows across the street and catches the shadowy reflection, and then he _moves_. The bag’s in his right as soon as he spins on Fitzy, and no matter the four inches he has on Sean, Sean shoves him back against the wall they’re next to, snarling, “What’s the plan, Fitz? Shoot me here? Maybe knife me? What about a garrote? Don’t think you can do that one right, though. What is it, huh?”

“Just walkin’,” Fitzy says in that heavy brogue, a sardonic smile pulling at his mouth. “Gettin’ supper, Officer.”

“Detective,” Sean snaps at him. “Massachusetts State Police detective, asshole, and you fucking remember it. You or anyone else gets fucking _close_ , you’ll have the force out for your fucking blood, you got it?”

“Hey,” a woman shouts. “Hey, is there a problem?”

“Don’t worry, ma’am.” Sean uses an authoritative tone as he pushes back his jacket with his left hand enough to show his badge, hooked to his belt. “I’m a cop.”

“Oh, all right.” She skirts them, walking on the street to pass by.

“That was easy for you,” Fitzy observes. “It’s like you weren’t a con for, how long was it, Sean?”

“Almost five years,” Sean says tersely, “and I was never a fucking con. You got it?” He loosens his hold on Fitzy, stepping back as his eyes narrow. “You got no business here. Fucking move.”

“Yes sir, _Detective_.” Fitzy gives what’s probably supposed to be a salute, and Sean’s fist aches to hit him. But Fitzy doesn’t make a move toward him, so Sean just watches Fitzy walk away. People can tell, he notices. They see that Fitzy’s not right, not like them. They give him room, move a little to the edges of the sidewalk or fall back instead of getting too close. No one wants to risk getting their throat ripped out.

Shaking his head at himself—Jesus _Christ_ , he could’ve gotten himself _killed_ , and then those years would’ve been for fucking _nothing_ —he starts walking once Fitzy’s disappeared down the street. If he walks home, it’s riskier, but it’ll clear his mind, get him back on track with this whole ‘stop being a fucking idiot’ thing about watching his own back. The fuck was he _thinking_ , Christ.

So he walks, and he keeps the bag in his right hand, and he stays so fucking aware that it’s almost exhausting. That girl on his right, slowly starting to lag and popping gum. The guy ahead of him, picking up speed and then turning into a pawn shop. The one across the street who looks at him a little too long. He watches every fucking one of them, and none of them pose the slightest damn threat, of course.

By the time he gets home, the chowder has cooled, but it’s still hot enough to eat—the wonders of Styrofoam cups. He’s kind of surprised none of his food got ruined when he spun on Fitzy, pinned him. Important thing is it didn’t. He pulls out the center of the bread bowl and pours the soup in, grabbing a cup of ice water while it starts to soak into the bread. Best fucking way to eat it. Tonight, he sits at his kitchen table, which is probably big enough for four but has only ever seen, at most, two bodies sitting around it, and usually a big old zero. Tonight, he needs to think.


	2. Chapter 2

“I need to be out around seven on Thursday,” Sean tells Queenan on Tuesday afternoon. Robert called sometime in the morning and left a message, and Sean called back to confirm after he got it over lunch. So they’re on for Thursday at a restaurant he’s heard of but never been to. He knows he can walk to it from the department, but that’s not saying much; he can walk about anywhere in the city.

“That’s fine.” Queenan finishes signing off on something and sits back in his chair, taking off his glasses in a move Sean recognizes after so long working with him, a quick fold and slide into his shirt pocket. “Do you have a date, Detective?”

“Yeah.” Sean pauses a moment, but doesn’t let himself think too long because doing that keeps getting him in trouble inside his own head. Besides, Queenan’s door is closed, and he owes honesty to Queenan if he does to anyone, the number of times and ways Queenan saved his ass. “It’s with a guy.”

He has no idea how his captain’s going to react to that. As it turns out, he just gets a considering look and a nod. “All right. Enjoy yourself.”

Sean relaxes from that part of the tension over the whole thing and nods. “What do I need to know about Lori Hardison?”

“You’ve read her file?”

Sean nods. “There’s always shit not in files.”

“You’re catching on to how we do things here. By ‘here’, I don’t mean this unit. I mean the entirety of the Massachusetts State Police.” That gets Sean to crack a smile. Seems like this was Queenan’s goal because he smiles back. “Hardison is using the name Lori Acardi. She’s in with Nicastro.” This is the shit in her file, but it’s probably building up to something else. “She’s been in longer than you. Because she’s a woman, they’re not looking at her as someone who might be a mole. No guns in her face or anything like that, but she’s had other problems.”

Sean knows perfectly fucking well what that can mean. Lowlifes don’t respect ‘no’ much. “They hurt her?”

“Not that she’s told me and not that I can tell. She’s in Chicopee now, which is why we’re taking a ride to meet her in Franklin.” That’s the downside to this job, driving all over the fucking state to meet with people. At least it hasn’t been fucking Pittsfield yet. Franklin’s not too bad. “She moves a lot. She couldn’t say much over the phone, but you know how that is. It sounds to me like she might have information on some _capos_ of Nicastro’s, though. We’ll find out more in an hour.” Queenan flips the file folder in front of him closed, opens his desk drawer, drops the folder in, and locks the drawer before he stands. “Get yourself a car yet?”

“I spend all my copious free time reading romance novels and eating chocolate,” Sean deadpans. “I haven’t gotten to it.”

Queenan shakes his head. “The T is going to get very old, Detective.”

“I know. This weekend, maybe.”

“Practice by driving today,” Queenan suggests, and tosses him the keys to his car.

Sean catches them easily and shrugs. “Yeah, okay.”

The good thing about working for Queenan is that he’s easy to talk to. Sean’s not good at silences, hasn’t been for as long as he can remember, and he’ll talk just to piss someone off if he has to. He respects Queenan too much to want to do that, though, and Queenan will hold a conversation without a lot of pushing. That means Sean can talk about actual things, even if they’re small, and that means his mind isn’t wandering to Thursday.

When they get to Franklin, they walk in quiet down a running path to a bench. “She’ll meet us here,” Queenan tells him, and they sit together, just two men on a break from their office jobs if anyone comes by.

“Any reason I haven’t met Hardison yet?” Sean asks.

“I didn’t want to subject her to you.”

Sean laughs, leaning back. “So what’s she like?”

He and Queenan talk for nearly an hour about their cases and their undercovers. Thirteen minutes after Hardison was supposed to show, Sean sneaks a careful look at his watch, his first of many. Thirty-eight minutes in, he catches Queenan doing the same. After that, he doesn’t care so much about being covert. “So where is she?” he asks at fifty-seven minutes.

“She’s the one who set it up.” Queenan’s shoulders look tight. 

“We don’t have anything else for a while, do we?”

“We can wait,” Queenan agrees. “Another hour.”

That hour is more focused on Nicastro and what Hardison is investigating. Sean gets the meat of things, what she knows so far, and neither of them bothers to hide their glances at their watches.

“Shit,” Queenan mutters after they’ve fallen silent for a couple of minutes. Sean checks his watch; it’s been an hour. Queenan stands and pulls his cell phone from his pocket. “Let’s head back.”

This hasn’t happened in the time Sean has been working directly with Queenan, but he has an idea of what it might mean. “There were a few times I didn’t make it,” he points out on their walk back to the car.

“I didn’t like those times any more than I like this.” Queenan pulls out his cell phone and flips it open. He’s been checking it since they got out of the car, but it looks like he still hasn’t gotten a message they managed to not hear. “Damn it.”

Sean doesn’t think he could take it if Queenan started looking resigned, which makes it a damn good thing that he’s starting to sound pissed. He knows firsthand how much Queenan does for undercover cops, and it’s looking like this is going to show Sean more of the lengths he goes to.

As soon as they’re in the car, where no one watching in Hardison’s place might be able to see or hear, Queenan dials a number. Sean turns the key in the ignition, and Queenan starts talking.

They can’t put out a missing person’s on Hardison. It’s too soon, and if she’s not dead, her cover’s broken that way. They can’t put out a missing person’s on Lori Acardi, even if it gets to be seventy-two hours before she calls in. Lori Acardi doesn’t exist. But Queenan can put out feelers for any women arrested in the Chicopee area who are suspected of working with Nicastro and more for dead women, murdered or suspicious circumstances, except he extends that one through the state.

Sean really fucking hopes Hardison calls in soon so they don’t have to keep those feelers going.

Even so, they keep working. They have more cops out there than one woman who might be missing or dead or just fine and had to deal with bullshit instead of making a meeting. If they focus on Hardison instead of doing their fucking jobs, they could lose someone. Or another someone, if that’s the case.

Wednesday brings three meetings with undercovers in Boston and Cambridge. All of them make their meetings, the slowest maybe five minutes late, the fastest already waiting when they get there early. The meetings are uneventful, quick patdowns for the blue-collar types since they look more suspect talking to the cops than white-collar do, quicker reports that Sean commits to memory while he mostly watches and listens. He’s been on their side, and he knows how he sounded and looked when he needed pushing. Far as he can tell, these guys don’t. There’s just not much shit they know yet.

“Hey,” Easley, a guy dug into some corporate shit, the one who was early, says to Dignam, “did you do this?”

Sean glances at Queenan, who shrugs. “Yeah,” Sean says. “Almost five years, I did this. You’re doing good.”

Easley nods and glances around their meeting place under a bridge, making sure they’re not being watched before he strolls off, cool as anything in his Italian shoes and tailored suit. Sean hopes like hell he can bring down Van Kais, at least get it fined, if they’re paying people enough to easily afford that kind of thing.

Unlike Wednesday, Thursday doesn’t give a whole lot of out-of-office work. Sean has paperwork, and he does most of it in Queenan’s office. Both of them pretend it’s because he only started there about six months before and it relates to stuff he doesn’t know, but Queenan doesn’t hide how often he checks his cell phone or glances at his desk phone while he does his own paperwork. Around four, Queenan asks him, “When do you meet with the ADA again? What was her name?”

“Abigail Soares.” Sean scrawls his name at the bottom of a form he’s just filled out. He’s going to have to type most of a report based on this and have Queenan write the rest of it. “I see her tomorrow over lunch. More reviewing my testimony while they put together their case, I guess.”

Queenan nods. “Leave at five if nothing comes up before then.”

Sean isn’t turning down the extra time. He might spend it in the gym, but it’s still time that he’s not doing paperwork. “Last appointment with the shrink is tomorrow. It’s supposed to be the last, I mean.”

“You’ll have a busy Friday. In the morning this time?”

“Yeah. I got him to put me down for nine.” Sean smirks. “Start off his day with his favorite cop.”

Queenan smiles, but there’s something hollow about it. He checks his phone again, and Sean flips open his notepad to jot a reminder about that report. He’ll do it after seeing the shrink unless something comes up.


	3. Chapter 3

Soares isn’t a bad one, not really. Sean doesn’t like her on principle—she’s a lawyer, she’s an ADA, the DA’s office has been failing at taking down Costello for years no matter what the undercovers have given them—but she’s not actually bad. She’s pretty enough, a short black woman with her hair cut close, great figure, but he’s not interested in her because she’s a lawyer alone. He might be otherwise.

“Detective, the trial starts in a week and a half. I need to know you’ll be ready.” She sounds like she wants to be here about as little as he does. He assumes it has to do with his charming personality.

“I’ve been ready for months,” he shoots back. “I know my answers.” The good thing about this is that she’s picking up the tab for lunch, even if it is just sandwiches she had delivered. He takes a bite of his, pastrami on rye with plenty of mustard, and hopes some trooper gets in his face this afternoon. Preferably one he doesn’t like, maybe Ellerby, that shitstain staff sergeant.

“It’s a matter of phrasing things so they’re not stricken,” she says patiently. “We need to have these men put away for life to send a message.”

He snorts and swallows. “You think you’re sending a message? Lady, they’re more afraid of Costello and French than they’ll ever be of you. By the way, I gave you plenty of evidence on both of them. Why the fuck haven’t _they_ been arrested?”

Her expression goes flat. “I can’t discuss that with you. You’re a witness.”

He rolls his eyes. “Fine. Making sure my testimony isn’t stricken. Apparently, I can’t say ‘fuck’ on the stand. I already know I’m supposed to answer questions and not say shit that’s beyond the scope of the question. I might be a Southie, and I might be a cop with only a BS, but that doesn’t make me stupid.”

Her jaw tightens. That’s gratifying. “I am aware of that, Detective. We still need to review your testimony, and you need to make sure you can hold your oh-so-infamous temper during cross-examination.”

He grins wolfishly. “Even your office knows about that? That’s fucking excellent. Now, what kind of shit do you want to go over?”

When he gets back to the office after detouring for a cup of coffee, Queenan looks tenser than ever. So Hardison still hasn’t called. “We might be moving on something tomorrow,” Queenan tells him. “Easley gave me some information from a payphone. He wants to meet.”

Sean nods and doesn’t bother losing his suit jacket. “Same place?”

“No, down under the Longfellow Bridge. You drive.” Queenan tosses him the keys again, and they head out of the office.

Easley’s waiting, leaning back against the railing that looks over the river, casual to anyone who doesn’t see his grip on his briefcase, his knuckles white. “I found something,” he says without preamble.

“Yeah, what’s that?” Sean asks him. It’s important. Any idiot could see that. Anyone who’s been where Easley is can also see he needs a little pushing; the set to his jaw, his grip, the way his brow is furrowed, his tight shoulders all give him away. “Someone lifting pens from the supply closet? Or something bigger, like staplers?”

Good. Easley looks like he’s going to swing that briefcase at him. “The head of technological development made a call today. There’s a sale happening, some prototypical chips to another firm. This other firm is based in Iran.”

Sean keeps his face impassive. “That’s all you got? A phone call? What are we supposed to do with that?”

“You mentioned files on the phone,” Queenan says smoothly. He’s known how to play off Sean the whole time; Sean’s only learned how to play off him the last couple of months. “Where are they?”

“They’re kept in a locked room on the third floor. There’s a numeric keypad.” Easley smiles faintly. “I’m authorized. And the call was bugged, Detective.”

“What do the files say?” Queenan prods. “Is there anything we can use? How explicit was the conversation?”

“Yeah. They include some contracts with a company owned by the Iranian firm, as well as a Taiwanese shell company. The conversation was handled in coded language, but it’s clear if you know what they’re talking about.” Easley looks at Sean. “Despite what you think, Detective, I’m good at both my jobs.”

“You have one job,” Sean says, that mouth of his running ahead before he’s fully considered it. “You have one job right now. You’re not a cop.”

“Detective,” Queenan says, all it takes to rein Sean in. “We’ll secure a warrant, Easley. Do you have anything we can take to a judge?”

“I’ll swear an affidavit if it helps, just a whistleblowing employee.”

“That would get you fired once they found out, and they _would_ find out it’s you. We’ll speak to the DA’s office. The warrant should be served by early next week.”

“As fast as you can, Captain.”

“No, we’re going to take our fucking time,” Sean mutters, and Easley ignores him.

“The sale’s being finalized on Wednesday.”

“The warrant should be signed by Monday,” Queenan assures him. “We’ll arrest you tomorrow if we have to in order to get it signed.”

“Fine by me.” Easley blows out a breath. “I can keep doing this, you know. If you need me to, send me to another company. It isn’t terrible.”

 _Lucky bastard,_ Sean thinks.

“We won’t be able to once you testify,” Queenan tells him. “Even if your testimony is technically sealed, someone’s going to leak it. But we might have a case against most of the higher-ups if we play this right. Keep doing your job, don’t act out of the ordinary when we serve the warrant, and this is going to be fine.”

“And do _not_ try to do shit yourself,” Sean adds. “Great way to get our case trashed.”

“I understand that, Detective.” Easley should; when he’s provably a cop, he’s a detective himself. He looks at Queenan, his grip on his briefcase easing. “That’s all I have for now. I’ll keep looking.”

“You’re doing a good job,” Queenan says, which Sean has to admit is the truth. Easley’s holding up under the strain better than most would, and he brought solid information. “I’ll call the ADA when we get back to the office.”

Easley nods. “I need to head back. This is a late lunch hour for me.”

Queenan nods back. “Go ahead. We’ll be seeing you soon. Just keep your head down. You’re doing fine.”

Sean nods in agreement, and Easley tips his chin to both of them. They leave before he does; Easley turns to look out over the water of the river, and Sean and Queenan get in the car. Easley should wait ten minutes or so, make sure the connection isn’t made, same as Sean used to. It’s the smart play. As long as Easley keeps making those, he’ll be fine. So will their case.

In the car on the way back, Queenan calls Darlene and asks her to find him a White Collar ADA he can get to have a warrant signed. Once he’s closed his phone, he says to Sean, “We’re going to spend the rest of the day pulling together what we need for the warrant.”

“Sounds fucking fun.”

That doesn’t take too long; the bug records, rather than transmits, so they can’t pull that for the judge to hear. Sean heads out just after five, once he finishes typing a report about meeting with Easley for the judge to read over. Queenan’s still working on something when Sean leaves, probably hoping Hardison will call, and Sean chooses not to address that. Not yet. It’s only been two days. Sean was later than this a few times when big shit happened. It’s unsettling, knowing Queenan was probably like this when he didn’t call; no one’s ever worried that much about where he’s been before.

Instead of hitting the gym, he takes the T home, where he changes and goes for a run. Only two miles, but it’s enough to get him settled in advance of the date, and it’s an excuse to take a hot shower. Then he brushes his teeth, shaves again even though he doesn’t really need to, and finally gets dressed—slacks and a button-down, no tie. After pocketing his cell phone and pager, he stares at his shoulder holster. Trial’s in a week and a half; right now is the perfect time to get rid of him. He’s the first prosecution witness, according to Soares. That means the crew has a tight timeline for offing him if they’re going to get Middlebrook and Williams off the hook.

Christ, he wishes he could have nailed Fitzy with good, solid evidence, but a couple of other drug- and gun-dealing murderers are something.

At the same time, though, it’s not like he and Robert are coming back here if they go back anywhere, and he’s not leaving his gun in reach of someone else. That’s an argument for leaving the gun behind, a pretty fucking strong argument, and he’s not planning to wear a sports coat or anything to hide it.

For the first time in months, he ejects the cartridge and locks it and his gun in his safe before leaving the house.

It feels freeing and risky, all at once.

Like Queenan said, the T has been getting old, older since he pointed out it would. Sean walks to the restaurant instead. He leaves early, early enough that, even with the few miles, he has plenty of time to waste. He spends it in a drugstore, looking at their selection of birthday cards. Unfortunately, they don’t have one that says, ‘Happy birthday, ever going to talk to me again?’ that he can send his sister. Besides, he has no idea where he has her address or if she still lives wherever the hell it was. Virginia, he thinks it was. Or maybe it was West Virginia. Ultimately, it doesn’t matter; he last had it four years ago, and she hasn’t made an effort in six even when he did send her cards, which means he’s not even spending the couple bucks on a card and postage on her. It’s not worth it.

Robert’s not there yet when Sean does walk into the restaurant, just under ten minutes early. He says to the hostess, “I’m waiting on someone,” and takes a seat, glancing at the other customers as he does. No one he recognizes. It’s too high-class for most of the fuckers who don’t eat much more than frozen meals and takeout, or what their wives or girlfriends cook if they have them (or his mother, in Fitzy’s case), and it’s too low-class for French and Costello, which means he probably _wouldn’t_ recognize anyone.

Robert’s only a couple of minutes later, and Sean stands when he sees him. Robert smiles at him. He’s wearing a dark green shirt that looks good with his hair and goes with his eyes, pants that make his legs look long and his ass look great. Once Robert says to the hostess, “Messer, party of two,” it settles the fact that hey, yeah, it’s a date.

That doesn’t bring the anxiety roaring back like Sean thought it would. He hasn’t thought a lot about it all week; he’s been rehearsing his testimony in his head or trying to figure out the Hardison problem during his off hours, or else actually at work, and he’s been deliberately blocking it out.

Apparently, his mind’s been figuring it out without him. That’s just fine with him. He _had_ it figured out before his mind did. This is just catch-up, making things even.

After they’re seated, Robert says to him, “You look great.”

Sean smiles for a second. “You too.” He thinks for the briefest moment before telling Robert, “I’ve never done this before.”

“Been on a date?” Robert asks, almost smirking.

Sean grins back. “Not with a guy.”

“That’s not a problem for me if it’s not a problem for you,” Robert assures him, which actually works. He flips his menu open. “You’ve never been here before, you said?”

“That’s right.” Sean opens his, too. Most of the names of the dishes are at least familiar.

“Their chowder isn’t the best, but they have some great steak and seafood.”

He glances at Robert. “Good seafood, not good chowder?”

“I don’t know how it works, I only know it’s true.”

Sean snorts and looks back at his menu. There’s no real way to ask what usually happens at the end of a date between two guys, not even for him and his bluntness. It’d make him look stupid, and he’s not having that.

Their waiter is pretty usual, maybe a little more uptight than ones from other places Sean’s eaten. Just for that, he makes his order detailed. Conversation stays free and easy, the same as when they met on Sunday. They get their checks separate, and after, Robert asks, “Do you want to come home with me?”

Sean hardly has to think about it. “Yeah, I do.”

Robert smiles in a way that has Sean feeling like he’s fourteen and about to get laid for the first time all over again. He smiles back and follows Robert to his car. Just before going to the passenger side, he pulls Robert down to kiss him hard. He might not have been on a date with a guy before, or any real date in more than a year, and might not know exactly where this is going, but he knows how to kiss, and the only differences from kissing a woman are that Robert kisses as fiercely as he does and that he’s kissing someone a lot taller. That’s not even an issue at this point, not with how Sean’s pants feel a little tight.

Once they’re in the front door, Robert asks, “Do you want coffee or anything? I could make a pot.”

“Not really,” Sean says frankly, and steps right into Robert’s personal space. He smirks and Robert smiles back, leaning down to kiss Sean again, just as hard as that first time.

Once they separate, they make it to the couch, Robert’s hand on his back, and Robert asks, “Have you ever done anything with a guy?”

“No.” Sean kisses Robert again, lightly, and adds, “But I’m not shy.”

“Good.” Robert drops a hand to Sean’s leg, palming upward, and Sean watches, his breath turning unsteady the second Robert’s hand is on his dick through the thin fabric of his pants. “You don’t feel shy.”

Sean catches Robert in a kiss, biting his lip, before he answers. “I’m not.” He’s also not ready just yet to touch Robert’s dick, but give him a couple more of these kisses and he will be. Instead, he rests one hand high on the front of Robert’s thigh and slides the other down Robert’s arm. There’s another difference from being with a woman: the muscles.

Robert’s hand leaves his dick, but it’s to pull Sean a little closer, make them touch all the way down their legs and up to Sean’s shoulder, and that’s just fine with him. They kiss again, and it turns almost harsh, the way their teeth clash and they bite each other’s lips and shove their tongues in each other’s mouths.

Sean can’t remember being this hard in a long time, not even after that dream.

It’s the second kiss like that that has Sean groping Robert through his pants. It’s not as weird as he thought it’d be. It feels natural, touching him like this, the hardness under the leg of Robert’s pants, and he follows that line up to his crotch and cups his balls. Robert turns and uses his greater weight to turn Sean with him, pressing Sean back against the arm of the couch, and bites his neck without sucking at it. No hickey above his collar, and that’s good. Still, that bite makes Sean’s hips rise, and when he’s caught his breath again, he asks, “You have a bedroom somewhere in this place?”

Robert grins, grabs him through his pants. “Yeah.” Then he stands. “Come on, this way.”

Sean gets up and, when Robert turns, grabs his ass. Robert retaliates the same way, and they almost end up back on the couch. Somehow, they get up the stairs instead, and there’s Sean, in the middle of some other guy’s bedroom.

He pushes Robert to the bed once Robert’s pants are off, which makes him laugh, and Sean drops to his knees. He takes a moment just stroking Robert’s dick. He has to get used to the different grip he has to use, the heaviness and how he’s slightly thicker, the clean soapiness over a musky sort of smell, and the small sounds Robert makes, because he’s never had another guy’s dick in his hand before. Then he asks, “Got a condom?” because he knows plenty about safe sex, straight and not, and has no desire to risk catching anything.

“Yeah.” Robert opens his nightstand drawer and grabs one, handing it to Sean, and Sean rips it open before rolling it on him.

Mostly, he’s curious. He’s wondered some, at the restaurant and definitely here, and he wondered a little when he got head in the past what it was like to give it (which maybe should have been a clue he wasn’t a straight motherfucker after all), but this isn’t all he wants to do. He’s still going to try, though. Why the fuck not?

He runs his hands up Robert’s legs, the coarse hair under his hands another new feeling, and takes the head of his dick in his mouth. The latex tastes gross, and his dick feels heavy on Sean’s tongue. Above him, Robert gives this quiet little moan that makes Sean so much harder, and he starts to move his head and his tongue, sucking hard to make up for his lack of experience and inability to go very far down. He pulls off after about a minute and looks up.

“Not the main thing I want to do.”

Robert’s fucking **hot**. His pupils are blown, face flushed down to his neck, and Sean’s finally getting a good look at Robert shirtless. He’s in good enough shape—he mentioned he’s a runner, so it makes sense—and he has a light sprinkling of chest hair. Somehow, Sean finds even that a turn-on.

“What’s the main thing you want to do?”

Sean stands, shucking his pants and boxers. He’s already barefoot and shirtless, and once he steps out of his pants, he catches Robert giving him a slow once-over. “I’ve been wondering.” He leans down, kissing Robert deeply. When he pulls back, catching his breath, he says, “I want try being fucked.”

Robert’s breath catches. “You’ve never—”

“Nope.”

“Then we’ll go slowly.” Robert reaches for him, his hands on Sean’s lower back and drifting down, and Sean gets close enough to straddle his legs. Robert shifts back so he’s fully on the bed, and Sean follows, kneeling over Robert’s legs. Robert kisses him again, hard as ever, as his fingers trail down in the crack of Sean’s ass. Sean shivers a little at the unfamiliar feel and decides he’ll get used to it while he kisses Robert some more.

He’d accuse Robert of teasing, except that he said he’d be taking things slowly. He is when his fingers touch across Sean’s asshole, which is really a good thing because _that_ is going to take some getting used to. Sean bites Robert’s neck and doesn’t leave a mark on him, except maybe teeth imprints that will fade in a matter of minutes, and he moans. With his free hand, he tangles his fingers in Sean’s hair, pulling him back into a kiss. Then he’s pressing against Sean’s hole, and Sean freezes for a second. It’s what he wants, sure, but it’s also completely different and new. Robert’s hand drops away for a second, and he pulls back to look in his nightstand again. He comes up with a bottle of lube, and it takes both hands so he can get his fingers slick. He turns his attention back to kissing Sean then, and Sean kisses him back, overriding the shock of slippery, wet fingers touching him there, one of them just barely pressing into him.

Robert pulls back from the kiss and tells him, “It’s easier if you push back. And if you can relax.”

“Fuck you, I’m relaxed.” To prove it, Sean kisses him hard, but he does push back against Robert’s finger, and it does make them slip in.

Robert grins against his mouth and says, “I’m the one who’s going to do the fucking, remember?”

Sean laughs, and Robert pushes his finger in further. Being relaxed apparently does make a difference. It would probably make sense if Sean could think about more than the kissing and that finger inside him and the feel of Robert’s dick against his leg.

Thoughts are abruptly driven from his mind when that finger twists inside of him and then turns back and presses, and a spark shoots through him. “Ah fuck,” he gasps, “do that again.”

Robert does, and Sean can’t be bothered with muffling his moan, pressing back toward Robert’s finger. The rest of Robert’s hand presses against him, the slickness getting all over his ass, and he doesn’t give a damn as long as Robert keeps doing that with his finger.

Then he pulls it almost all the way out, and Sean narrows his eyes as much as he can when he feels like this, good and hot and horny and slick inside and just wanting that finger back. It’s only for a moment, though, because another finger is pressing with the first then, which Sean isn’t sure he can take until he remembers to push back and then both are sliding slowly into him.

“You look fucking incredible,” Robert mutters.

Sean’s a little beyond replying at the moment. He’s more focused on the fact that Robert’s pressed against that spot again, and two fingers feel just a little better than one when he does that. If he could, he’d probably tell Robert how goddamn good he looks like this, focused and flushed, his lips kiss-swollen, teeth marks on his neck. Sean abruptly matches those marks on the other side, and then he kisses him again.

Robert’s fingers are moving, pressing him open, and there’s a feeling in Sean’s stomach that he can’t identify. It’s more than just arousal and want, and it’s something different than those too. The closest might be open or even vulnerable, not that he’d ever fucking say it, hardly even to himself.

“You still want me to fuck you?” Robert asks after another minute or so of desperate kissing and of his fingers moving inside Sean.

“Oh fuck yes,” Sean gets out. Even if the feeling is vulnerability, it doesn’t matter; this is too good to not want more.

That unfortunately means those fingers come out of him, and Robert says, “You’re not going to want to be on top your first time, believe me.”

“Fine.” Sean moves over to Robert’s right, dropping down to his elbows, and Robert kisses his shoulder once before getting up to kneel behind him.

His dick is completely different than his fingers, thicker and blunter, and Sean’s abruptly aware of his harsh breathing that he tries hard to steady, of the pressure, of the feel of the slightly rough blanket under his forearms. “Push against me,” Robert reminds him, and Sean does.

There’s a sharpness, gone as fast as it comes, when he stretches, and then Robert’s inside him. It’s not how he dreamed it, and not just because he’s on his knees and elbows instead of on his back, but because it’s so much better. There’s Robert’s groans and unsteady breathing and muttered curses behind him, there’s Robert’s dick moving inside him, there’s Robert’s thighs against his, and there’s Robert’s hand on his dick, stroking almost in time with his thrusts.

Robert keeps his free hand on Sean’s hip, gripping tight, right up until he leans forward and grabs Sean’s shoulder instead. That changes the angle of his dick going into Sean, sending sparks through him. He grits out a moan, his hands fisting in the blanket, and arches his back. He tosses back his head before dropping it forward, eyes squeezed shut, and can hear Robert over him, hissing curses, feel Robert’s chest and stomach on his back, sliding a little as he moves his hips. Then he rubs his thumb over the head of Sean’s dick, and that does it for him.

Sean is _definitely_ not straight. The whole thing is too good for that to even be a question.

After Robert’s finished inside of him and gotten rid of the condom, he tries to catch his breath. “That was better than my dreams.”

Robert smiles and kisses him more slowly than before. “Glad to be of service. Do you want to stay the night?”

“I’d like to,” he admits, “but there’s something going on at work. I need fast access to my gun if I have to go in.”

“Then I’ll give you a ride back.”

He considers a moment. He would like to have another warm body in bed with him for once. “You could stay at my place. Not as nice as yours, but the bed’s comfortable.”

“Sure,” Robert agrees. “In a few minutes.”

“Yeah, soon.” Once Sean feels like he can move more easily. He’s taking a shower when he gets home, that’s for damn sure.

Hell, maybe he’ll ask Robert to get in with him. The shower’s probably big enough. Even if he doesn’t, he’ll ask him on another date.


	4. Chapter 4

In the morning, Sean kicks Robert out after showering together and having coffee, then finally takes out his gun. He doesn’t go for a run, and doesn’t have time for the gym, just heads up to the shrink’s office and does his usual quick summary before sitting back and giving the shrink a challenging look.

He has a mildly malicious thought toward the end of the session and says it when there’s only five minutes left. “Had a date last night.”

“Oh?” The shrink looks interested. Probably because it’s the first really personal thing Sean’s said to him.

“Yeah.” He pauses. “With a guy.”

To his credit, the shrink doesn’t even blink. “Was this your first date with a man?”

“Yeah, my first time getting fucked up the ass, too.” This time, the shrink does blink, almost flinches, and Sean smirks. “Let me guess, daddy issues caused by Frank Costello, according to your brilliant insight?”

“I’m aware you have little respect for my profession,” the shrink says crisply. “You’ve thought about men in a sexual way before?”

“Yeah, so what?”

“Then my assumption is only that you’re not heterosexual, nothing more.”

Letdown. Sean sits back and shuts his mouth, and the shrink doesn’t push it.

When he gets to the floor above, he heads for Queenan’s office instead of his own. He has to check in, and if he’s honest with himself, he wants to check on Queenan, too.

Ellerby, the prick, stops him in the hall. “Detective, I heard there’s something going on with one of your undercover officers.”

“You hear all kinds of shit, don’t you?”

“Well, what is it?”

“My UC says to tell you to fuck yourself. Don’t stick your nose where it doesn’t belong.” Sean walks around him and gets to Queenan’s office a few steps later. Once he’s in, he says, “Ellerby’s asking questions about Easley. I think Easley, anyway. It could be Hardison. He didn’t give me a name.”

Queenan glances up. He looks like shit, eyes almost bruised from lack of sleep. “I’ll speak with him. He shouldn’t be pressing.”

“Did we get the warrant?”

“Our ADA should be getting it now. How was your night, Sean?”

Sean allows himself an almost-smile. “Seeing him again on Sunday, thanks.”

“Congratulations.”

Sean takes a chair facing Queenan’s desk. “Captain, when’s the last time you slept?”

“I slept last night.”

“Really slept.”

“I’ll sleep when we find out what’s happening with Hardison.”

“There’s nothing we can do?” Sean asks. He knows there isn’t, really, but they can try to talk it through, maybe get Queenan to not blame himself. “No one we can go to, can’t check her apartment?”

“If we search her apartment, we’ll need to disseminate cause for doing so, preferably with a warrant, or it looks suspicious. It might not tell us anything, and it might get her in trouble if she’s alive.”

Sean folds his arms loosely, thinking that over. It’s tough, it really is, trying to figure out what they can do for her. At least to find her.

Queenan’s phone rings just as Sean’s thinking he should go type that report.

“Yes,” Queenan says. He begins to stand. “All right. We’ll get organized. This afternoon? Perfect. Thank you.” He hangs up and smiles, tired but pleased, at Sean. “We got the warrant.”

Sean smiles back, then makes a sour face. “I’ll go collar Ellerby and get the unit.”

“I’ll make the rest of the arrangements. Get everyone in the conference room. I’ll be there in a few minutes.”

Sean hunts down fucking Ellerby after just a few minutes and says, “We need you and the rest of the unit in the conference room. Queenan’s orders.”

“What’s happening?” Ellerby asks. Sometimes he pays attention.

“Got a warrant. Conference room. Everyone,” Sean repeats. “Or do I need to use smaller words?”

“Fuck yourself,” Ellerby says, and steps out of his small office, no bigger than Sean’s. Sean takes that as done and heads for the conference room himself.

He stands in the front, just behind Queenan, his arms loosely folded, feet spread apart. Queenan begins once the last unit detective has filed into the room.

“We have a warrant to search Van Kais Incorporated that we’ll be using at one o’clock this afternoon. Our guy inside has passed on information about files in a locked room on the third floor. This involves selling prototypical computer chips to an Iranian firm through a shell company based in Taiwan. We need someone who has the code to the third floor door to let us in, preferably the head of technological development or someone at that level. This is a company. This is not a home, this is not a drug lab, this is a company with a lot of innocent people. We’ll go in with our weapons and vests, and there will be more heavily armed troopers outside, but our priority is clearing the building, having troopers search everyone as they leave, and getting every locked room open. Then we bring technicians in to remove everything. It’s not going to be a fun day, but it’s going to potentially prevent selling military-grade technology to Iran. Does everyone understand?”

Troopers murmur “yes, sir” through the room, and Queenan nods.

“Detective Dignam will be running the team looking into technological development. He’ll take five of you with him. Scotts, Campbell, Cornelius, Figueroa, and Clark, you’re on his team. Ellerby, you’ll be on the executive level, and Miller, you get accounting. Von Bryant, you have legal. Pick your teams, five or six each. Everyone have your radios on, I’ll be communicating that way. That’s all.”

Then he turns to leave. He gestures to Sean to follow him. Naturally, Sean does.

“How was Ellerby?”

“His oh-so-pleasant self. He’s not really competent, Captain.”

Queenan just hums in response. Once they’re back in his office, he says, “We’ll pay no attention to Easley. He’ll be another moderately high employee, he’ll be searched as the others, and you and I won’t take any notice of him.”

“Got it. You gave me a team.”

“I did. Is that a problem?”

“No, just wondering why. I’m a detective, not a sergeant.”

“Not yet, but you will be. The exam is in three months. I want you ready.”

Sean blinks. “Yes sir.” Queenan’s so fucking confident in him. He can do it, he knows it, it’s just having someone _else_ know it that’s weird.

“Good.” Queenan checks his cell, then goes to his desk and checks his voicemail. Since he doesn’t say anything, Sean assumes Hardison hasn’t called in. It’s getting to the point of being bad now. Not a guarantee, but bad.

By one, everyone’s assembled, other troopers called in, techs organized, and they caravan down, lights on, sirens off. Troopers cordon off the street and sidewalk as soon as they’re out of their cars; they start checking IDs and herding away people who don’t work for Van Kais and detaining those who do. The unit heads on in. Sean and his men go for tech development, and he tells them to keep an eye out for someone in a ridiculously overpriced suit coming out of an office when they spread out, directing everyone out of the building.

Figueroa is the one to collar Marcus Santillan, the guy who apparently made the call that tipped off Easley, and Santillan doesn’t protest too much about opening the door. Probably because there are cops everywhere.

Sean himself stays by the door and radios to Queenan, “Door’s open, Captain.”

“I’m sending techs up now. Who got Santillan?”

“Figueroa.”

“You clear, Dignam?”

“We have the lab to clear. Clean suits, all that. Five guys in there. Then we’re done.”

Queenan moves on to Ellerby and the others, who are all reporting basically the same things. Once forensic techs and uniforms take over, Dignam radios down to be sure he’s done.

He joins Queenan downstairs, saying, “There was a small marker on one of the cabinets in that room. I think our guy was tipping us off.”

“That could be. We’ll talk to him later.”

“Where do we go from here?”

“We take in the executives who were brokering this deal. Already have Santillan.” Queenan gestures to one of the patrol cars, where there’s a man in the back seat. “Now for the rest.”

Sean nods and wades into the mess of employees to executive-hunt.


	5. Chapter 5

Sean feels sure that the T wouldn’t have gotten so old so fast if Queenan hadn’t said it would. But he did, and it has, so Sean spends Saturday in hell, also known as car shopping.

He has the income to get a new car financed, the savings to put a decent chunk down on it, and since he doesn’t need or want anything too great, he winds up with a grey Camry, a sedan that looks every inch a cop car. And then he spends hours getting approved for the loan, getting insurance, making his down payment, setting up a payment plan, everything. With seven grand down—and seven grand less in his savings account, goddammit—he only has about five grand left to pay off. If he stays in the apartment instead of getting a better one, he’ll have it paid off inside a year. That one, he’ll have to consider.

His building has a small lot, and he finally puts his designated space to a good use. He’ll be able to drive to work now instead of standing in a crowded subway car, take his car when he and Queenan are meeting with undercovers if Queenan doesn’t want to drive, drive to dates instead of walking if he wants.

This car just might make him lazy.

The rest of Saturday is just as hellish as buying the car; he redoes his budget projection for the year, figuring in his new car payments and then how much he’ll need to pay monthly to get it paid off fast. That’s probably out of reach for this year, unless he dips into his savings again, but by next May, he’ll have it done, and he can afford an apartment that’s a couple hundred more a month if he does that. Of course, if he stays in this apartment…

Four versions of the budget later, he has an idea of where he’s going through December and how much he’ll have in savings by then. He’ll probably end up moving in October, before it starts snowing and after the heat is gone.

Sunday has to be far more interesting than Saturday. He grabs his pager, dresses in jeans and a t-shirt, and goes to meet Robert at a coffee shop. It’s one Sean picked, one with decent seating and great, cheap coffee. The plan is to get coffee, go for a walk, go to lunch, hit a movie, and probably fuck after. Sean’s good with that plan.

Robert’s waiting when Sean gets to the coffee shop; Sean smiles when he sees him and orders a coffee before joining him. “Been waiting long?”

“Only a couple of minutes.” Robert sips his coffee. “Which movie do you want to see?”

“There’s that Beatty movie, _Bulworth_ ,” Sean suggests, touching his mug to judge its temperature. Too hot to drink.

“That’s the politician who arranges a hit, right?”

Sean smirks. “On himself, yeah.”

“Yeah, that one sounds good,” Robert says with a nod. “Lunch first? I know a café that’s pretty good. Sandwiches, salads, that kind of thing.”

“Sure.” Sean leans his chair slightly back. “You don’t work weekends, do you?”

Robert shakes his head. “Not unless something extraordinary comes up at the museum. You?”

“Perk of mostly working an office,” Sean says with a grin. “Sometimes I get paged, but not often so far. When I go in, it’s usually planned.”

“How long have you been working in the office?” Robert asks.

“I can’t answer that.” Sean shrugs. “Has to do with cases and all that.”

Robert nods. “That makes sense.” Under the table, his leg brushes Sean’s. “Anything exciting happen the last couple of days?”

“Did you hear about the Van Kais arrests?” When Robert nods, Sean shrugs again. “If that’s what you call ‘exciting’.”

“What _can_ you tell me about that?”

“Not a lot. Illegal international sales, I can give you that.” Sean’s mug feels cool enough, and he sips his coffee. “Bought a car yesterday, which was incredibly fucking boring.”

“What kind?”

“Grey Camry.” He grins. “Looks like a cruiser.”

Robert laughs. “Fitting.”

“What were your Friday and Saturday like?” Sean touches his knee to Robert’s under the table.

“We had a traveling exhibit come in, so I worked with Mary Ford—our curator—on displaying it on Friday. You should come by the museum sometime. I’ll give you a tour.”

“I’d like that,” Sean says, to his own surprise. “Maybe next weekend.”

Robert smiles. “That would work for me. And yesterday, I mostly did things around the house. Not very interesting, I’m afraid.”

“Tell me about it anyway. Has to be better than buying a car and then doing and redoing my yearly budget,” Sean says. “And I mean that. I don’t know how I didn’t fall asleep at the table.”

Robert laughs, exactly what Sean wanted, and starts talking about homeowner things like mowing the lawn, planting a vegetable garden, all that shit. He pauses after a while and says, “I wanted to build a set of shelves in the garage, but it’s the kind of thing that takes at least two sets of hands. Would you be interested in helping?”

“I’d fucking love it. I don’t have a lot of manual work to do now, but in college and when I was a kid, I made money doing that kind of shit. It helped get me through school and kept me out of trouble.” Sean finishes off his coffee and adds, “More trouble, I mean. When?”

“I need to buy the lumber and take the measurements, so two weeks, if that works for you.”

“Yeah, that’s fine,” Sean agrees. “I should be free. No plans right now, anyway.”

Robert takes a long drink of his coffee; Sean watches his throat work and feels his dick twitch. “Are you through?”

“Yeah.” Sean stands, picking up his mug. He and Robert return their mugs to the bin near the register and head out into the sun. Sean squints, waiting for his eyes to adjust. “Where do you want to go?”

“Down that way,” Robert suggests.

After the movie, they end up back at Robert’s, where Robert kisses Sean hard as soon as the front door is closed. Sean takes that as invitation to grope him and kiss him back, and it’s not long before they’re in Robert’s bedroom and Sean’s slicking his fingers with lube.

Under Robert’s half-gasped directions, Sean fingers him open. They kiss the whole time, tongues sliding together and biting lips, and Sean strokes Robert’s cock while Robert strokes his, and when Robert grits out, “Ready, I—come on, Sean,” Sean grabs a condom, gets it on, and shifts on the bed to thrust into him. He feels fucking amazing. That’s probably in part because Sean hasn’t fucked anyone in ages, but it’s also partly because of how tight Robert’s hole is around him versus the softness of inside him. It’s completely different from fucking a pussy, but good. Really fucking good.

He’s getting used to this whole ‘fucking a guy’ thing pretty fast, but that’s at least partly because someone else is getting him off.

He’s getting used to the ‘going on dates with a guy’ part pretty fast, too. It would be unnerving if he didn’t enjoy it so much.


	6. Chapter 6

Easley turns up in Queenan’s office on Monday just after Sean himself gets in to check in with his boss.

Easley lets himself in after Darlene calls to let Queenan know, and Queenan gestures to the chairs. “Take a seat,” he says, his tone upbeat compared to the last week.

Sean figures that’s only because things are going well with Easley and the Van Kais case. He leans back against the low wooden filing cabinet behind Queenan’s desk, studying Easley.

Easley pulls a chair toward the middle of the room and sits, smiling slightly. He looks tired, like he’s maybe been partying all weekend, but pleased. Sean wouldn’t be surprised if he did spend the weekend getting wasted. “How are things going, Captain?”

“The bail hearings are today. Our ADA says they should be set high, and he already got an order to freeze the Van Kais and suspects’ assets. And you? How are you doing, Murray?”

“I’m doing well. My wife is just happy this is over.” Easley sits back a little, stretching his legs. “She was afraid I’d end up dead or something. I told her it was just corporate, but I don’t think she believed me.”

“No reason she should. You were an undercover cop,” Sean says. “It’s not known for being safe.”

Easley shrugs. “It’s easier on her to believe I’m safe. Of course, now she’s happy I’m going to be a cop again, which sounds fairly absurd if she was afraid for my safety and wanted that over.”

“Let’s get you paid,” Queenan says, “and then we’ll do your debriefing.” He begins to type, and Sean glances over at him; he’s pushed his glasses down his nose, just a little, probably so he can see the screen better. “Okay,” he says after a minute or so. “What’s your bank account number? Or would you prefer a check?”

“Direct, thanks, Captain.” Easley shifts in his chair and pulls out his checkbook, reading aloud the relevant information.

“You’re all set. It should process on the next payday, next Friday. You’re secure until then?”

Easley nods. “My wife is an accountant. She has a steady paycheck. We’re fine, sir.”

“Not to mention your pay from that cushy job you just lost,” Sean says coolly. “Must be nice.”

Easley gives him a direct look. “When you were undercover, I’m sure you used some of what you were paid by the people you were investigating so you could afford to live.”

Sean’s respect for Easley rises a couple of notches. He pushes off Queenan’s cabinet and grabs a chair, spinning it to sit backward.

Queenan rummages in his desk for a moment and emerges with a recorder, setting it on his desk. “For reference’s sake,” he says, “we need to record your debriefing. Once we’re done today, you’ll be assigned a police psychiatrist to help you get used to department life again, and we’ll keep in contact to get you assigned to a new department.”

“I’d like to keep working with undercover officers,” Easley says.

Sean’s eyebrow hitches. “You don’t make that decision, smart guy.”

“We’ll discuss it later,” Queenan interjects. He switches on the recorder. “Captain Charles Queenan and Detective Sean Dignam are conducting this debriefing. State your name and birthdate for the record, please.”

“Murray Easley, August twentieth, 1966.”

“What was your initial assignment undercover?” Queenan asks.

“I was approached by Captain Queenan about going undercover in Van Kais Incorporated to investigate a possible RICO case. Captain Queenan informed me that they were suspected of trafficking illegal immigrants into the country, bypassing the immigration system to obtain skilled technicians faster and cheaper than legal immigrants and citizens. There was also an allegation of money laundering that I was to investigate.”

“What qualified you for this position, in your opinion?” Sean asks.

“I had an undergraduate degree in accounting before attending the academy and have a master’s degree in business that I obtained while working as a Massachusetts State Police detective. I assumed that was what Captain Queenan felt qualified me when he approached me.”

“In the course of your investigation, what did you find?” Queenan continues.

“I confirmed the money laundering. I also found that two accountants and a lawyer were embezzling, covering for each other, and I overheard a phone call from the head of technological development in which he was discussing the sale of prototypical computer chips to an Iranian firm via a Taiwanese shell company. That call was recorded on a bug I had planted in his phone, authorized by a warrant Captain Queenan obtained. I verified it with a file kept in a locked records room. The file contained contracts with both firms. That was when I requested a meeting with Captain Queenan and Detective Dignam.”

“And how long did you work for Van Kais?”

Easley takes a second to answer that one. “Four years.”

That part out of the way, Queenan nods to Sean and moves on to the harder questions. “In the course of your investigation, were you ever tempted to leave the force and cement your position with Van Kais?”

“No. I was upper management in technological development, and I was fully aware of the corrupt nature of Van Kais. Even though employee compensation was fair, my primary goal has always been to be a detective or higher for the Massachusetts State Police. Working for Van Kais was always part of my real job.”

Good answer. Sean had as easy a time with that question during his debriefing, but he was working for a psychopath, not in a cushy corporate job, and he hated Costello’s gang with a passion before he even got the assignment. Perk of being a Southie kid. “Were you ever offered a place in the embezzlement or laundering schemes?”

“Not in the embezzlement. The accountants and lawyer thought they wouldn’t get caught. I never told anyone at Van Kais that I had uncovered it. I wanted a police takedown, not a corporate scolding. I was offered a place in the money laundering scheme because those involved appreciated my accounting background. It wasn’t couched in those terms—something like a special opportunity that would employ a sort of commission payment system—but I turned them down. I already knew about the laundering scheme at that point. I was just collecting intelligence to confirm the case.”

“So you’re telling us you were never tempted to join Van Kais permanently, you didn’t participate in anything illegal, and you found us this evidence?” Sean asks, keeping all accusation out of his tone.

Easley nods. “That’s right.”

“That’s all for today,” Queenan says. “We’re going to arrange Detective Easley to meet with a department psychiatrist as the psychiatrist sees fit, and we will get Detective Easley incorporated back into the force.” He switches off the recorder and returns it to his desk; Sean’s going to get the fun of transcribing that later, he’s sure. At least it’s not as long as his debriefing was. “You did well, Murray. We’ll keep you as updated as we can on the case. The ADA, Dean Connelly, wants to meet with you later today. I’ll give you the specifics as soon as I have them. For now…” Queenan finds a folder on his desk. “I have forms for you to fill out.”

“Yes sir.” Easley stands. “Where should I…”

Queenan gestures to the small desk to the side, the one Sean often uses. “Right there is fine.”

Easley nods and takes the folder from Queenan, retreating to the desk.

“Sean,” Queenan says, “I want you to go to the bail hearings.”

“In an hour, right?” Sean asks.

“That’s right.”

Sean nods and gets up, setting the chair back in its place. “I’ll be back once that’s over. Tell you all about it,” he adds dryly.

Queenan smiles. “Thank you.”

Sean nods and heads back to his office. He starts his own report about serving the warrant; the preliminary arrest reports are done, finished on Friday, but he has to write up everything his team did, how it went, turning the scene over to uniform troopers and techs, everything boring like that. He keeps an eye on his watch, and once half an hour is up, grabs his jacket and stands.

The courtroom isn’t too stuffy, which is about the only point in its favor. He sticks to the back of the room, just observing, and has to listen to a couple of other hearings before the bailiff calls, “Marcus Santillan,” and rattles off the charges. It’s an impressive list. The ADA steps up to the prosecution table.

Santillan walks to the defendant’s table, his high-priced-looking lawyer beside him. Sean can see the work he’s had done around his eyes and forehead. “Aaron Miller for the defense.”

“Dean Connelly for the people,” the ADA says.

“How do you plead?” the judge asks Santillan.

“Not guilty.”

“Mr. Connelly?”

“Your Honor, the people have an undercover police witness to a phone call that confirms the charges. The witness placed a warranted bug on the defendant’s phone and the people have that as hard evidence of Mr. Santillan’s wrongdoings. Given Mr. Santillan’s foreign contacts and his assets, the people request five million in bail, an order not to leave the state, and seizure of his passport.”

“Five million is exorbitant, Your Honor,” Miller says. “My client is willing to turn over his passport. He’s looking forward to being vindicated from these absurd charges. However, his daughter lives in Connecticut and will be having his first grandchild next month.”

“Bail is set at three million, defendant will turn in his passport and only leave the state with the court’s permission.” The judge smacks down his gavel. “Next case.”

That’s something. Santillan is one of the main ones they wanted.

The other cases go similarly; the embezzlers have substantially lower bail than the CEO, CFO, and CCO, who are all implicated in the embargo violations. Those three have higher bail than Santillan, they have to hand over their passports, and they’re not allowed to leave the state; bail will be revoked if they do.

Sean slips back out of the courtroom and heads for the department. Queenan and Easley should both appreciate that outcome. He does.


	7. Chapter 7

The rest of the week stays pretty quiet, just the usual meetings with undercovers, spread between prostitution, drugs, weapons, and gangs. The last, of course, includes a couple in with Costello, ones who don’t know about each other at all and are in different crews. Sean knows what that’s like. One of them was in when he still was, and Sean had no fucking idea about his existence at the time.

Too fucking bad they can’t flip French. Then they’d bring down the whole mess. Gwen won’t work; she’d never turn on the bastard.

He also does a couple of briefings, making it clear that no one except he and Queenan will have any fucking idea who undercovers are, no matter what they get asked or how they get asked. Ellerby’s in one of those briefings, and he looks annoyed, but doesn’t ask Sean about anything he damn well shouldn’t.

Robert calls on Thursday night, half an hour after Sean gets home. “Do you want to do something on Saturday?” he asks. “There’s a shipment that’s supposed to arrive at the museum on Sunday, so I have to go in then, but I don’t have plans for Saturday.”

“Yeah, I’m not doing anything either,” Sean says.

“I make good hamburgers. Do you want to come over here for a few hours?”

“Around four?” Sean asks. Should give him something to fill a little of those sixty-odd hours of nothing.

“There’s a Sox game. Want to watch it?”

“That’s at… three?”

“Two-thirty.”

“Yeah, I’ll be there. See you then.”

“Bye, Sean.”

“Bye.” Sean hangs up and realizes that he’s smiling, and he’s having a fucking hard time getting rid of it.

He finally gets to transcribing Easley’s debriefing on Friday. Easley’s confident. His voice doesn’t waver; not a thing sounds wrong. He’ll be a fucking excellent witness.

Then the weekend hits, and Sean has no idea what the fuck he’s going to do to fill most of the time before his testimony on Monday morning.

So he starts it out with going for a run and then driving to the department to hit the gym, where he spends an hour on the cardio machines before telling himself that he can’t spend all fucking weekend in the gym. He has to do other shit. Besides potentially have sex.

That in mind, he heads home and showers, changes into jeans and a t-shirt, and stares around his apartment.

It strikes him that he never did any kind of spring cleaning. He usually just cleans as things need to be done, but what the hell, it’s a way to fill time. He flips on the TV, digs out the cleaning supplies from the tiny hall closet and gets started on the kitchen counters and sink.

He gets as far as pulling out the fridge and sweeping and mopping where it usually stands when he happens to glance at the clock. Swearing, he makes sure the fridge is plugged in securely—another good thing about not having any fucking pets: nothing to unplug the fridge while he’s gone—and goes to take a hurried shower.

He gets to Robert’s just after two-thirty, and Robert lets him in, already holding a beer. “Want one?” He holds it up.

“Yeah, thanks. Game already start?” Sean follows Robert to the kitchen, and Robert pops the cap off a bottle of Dos Equis, handing it to him.

“Yeah, I have it on in the living room.”

The TV was only showing ads when Robert let him in, so Sean excuses himself for not realizing. They head back to the parlor and sit on the couch together, nearly touching, and then Robert throws an arm around his shoulders.

“Mets or Sox?” Sean asks, the corners of his mouth lifting up.

“I may have gone to school in New York, but I’m an assimilated Bostonian. Sox, thank you. I hope you’re thinking the same.”

“Hey, at least it’s not the fucking Yankees. We should hit a game sometime.” He really has to stop saying things without thinking about them, but being reckless hasn’t hurt yet in dating Robert.

“Yeah, we should. Maybe in a couple of weeks.” Robert twists to kiss him swiftly. “Did you do anything you can tell me about this week?”

“Went to some bail hearings, told a bunch of nosy detectives and sergeants to back the fuck off because they’re going to find out exactly jack about who our undercovers are.” Sean shrugs. “My captain keeps everything close. So do I. We don’t want any dead cops.”

“I’ve noticed that. And I wouldn’t want to be one of the cops you were telling to fuck off.” Robert grins. “I imagine you’re effective.”

Sean grins himself, sharklike. “It usually fucking works, yeah. What did you do this week?”

“I made arrangements for the exhibit that’s being delivered tomorrow and wrote information cards on other exhibits to replace old ones. I also made arrangements for a couple of other traveling exhibitions and found more information on some pieces the museum is interested in having. A couple of them will be replicas, but most are paintings and original. And quite pricey.”

“Yeah, I can imagine. Got to be dropping a lot of money.”

“If we have to, we will. But we get donations from a lot of the older families.”

“That has to be nice.”

“It’s helpful,” Robert agrees, “but it also means they dictate, to an extent, what we display.” He shrugs. “It’s a tradeoff, but it keeps people coming back.”

Sean nods and settles more comfortably into the couch, taking a long drink of his beer.

The Sox fucking lose, nothing to one, and fuck the New York teams, but at least it wasn’t the Yankees. To console themselves, Sean and Robert each have another beer.

Robert’s burgers are up to his hype. It’s something in the way he seasons the meat and probably the fact that he actually barbecues them, but whatever it is, Sean helps himself to a second before he and Robert clear off the table and put everything away.

“I thought you’d have a dog.” Sean’s putting away the condiments.

“I used to, but she kept getting out. I gave her to my sister, Stacy. I’m going to build up the fence before I get another.” Robert glances at him. “What made you think that?”

Sean shrugs. “You just seem like a dog person. You’re a runner, home-oriented, open, all that.”

“You really are a detective.” Robert smiles. “Have a little more free time, Detective?”

Sean pulls him into a hard kiss. “Only if you don’t call me that in bed.”

Robert’s smile broadens. “I think I can manage that.”

Almost as soon as they get to the bedroom, Robert pushes Sean to sit on the edge of the bed and grabs a condom. He does this trick where he rolls it on Sean’s dick with his mouth and immediately begins to suck him off, pressing hard with his tongue and playing with Sean’s balls the whole time. He’s not over-gentle, like a chick might be, and Sean’s hands clench on his shoulders as he goes. That’s about the extent of things on Sean’s end, one hard orgasm after ten or so minutes of getting great head, and he allows himself a moment to catch his breath and to kiss Robert before grabbing another condom and rolling it on him. He slides to his own knees and thinks about everything he likes when he’s getting blown, then tries to do that for Robert. Judging by the sounds he’s making and the fingers digging into his shoulders, he does a good job.

He crawls back up on the bed after, and Robert kisses him before sucking in air. “You’re pretty good at that.”

“For someone new to giving head?”

“Now that you mention the qualifier.”

Sean kisses him again. “Practice makes perfect, right?”

“It should, and I won’t complain if you want to keep practicing.”

He smirks. “I think that’d be a good idea.”

They stay like that for a few minutes, sitting naked on the edge of Robert’s bed and kissing, before Sean asks, “Are you free Wednesday?”

“I think so. Did you want to do something?”

“Supper, my treat.”

Robert smiles in a way Sean particularly likes. “Let me know the details.”

“I’ll figure it out tomorrow,” Sean agrees. “You were busy tonight?”

“Yeah, I have some planning to do for setting up the new exhibit. I should start soon.”

Sean kisses him once more and stands. “I need to move my fridge back anyway.” He retrieves his pants and starts to dress.

“Your fridge,” Robert repeats.

“I was cleaning.”

“It’s a little late for spring cleaning,” Robert says, amusement evident.

Sean shrugs. “I’m a late bloomer.” That gets Robert to laugh, and he grins and finishes dressing before kissing Robert quickly. “I’ll call you tomorrow.”

“Wait, I’ll walk you to the door.” Robert only gets pants on before standing, and he looks good like that, jeans and shirtless, barefoot too.

At the door, he kisses Sean one last time, lingering, and by the time Sean breaks away, his mouth feels swollen. It might be, between the blowjob and kissing.

He checks the back of his car before getting in the front. No one’s hiding out, and it’s still locked, no windows broken. Christ, he feels paranoid, but he testifies in two days. He’ll be as paranoid as he damn well wants until that’s over.

Back at home, he does a quick search of the apartment and locks up before changing back into the already-dirty shirt from before. No point in getting two shirts that filthy.

He spends Sunday cleaning his room and reorganizing his papers. A slip falls out of old bill stubs, and he picks it up. Carrie’s number and address.

He sits back on his heels. It’s probably out of date by now. Four years since the last card he sent, six since the last phone call she answered. He should just throw it out. Not like it’s going to be useful.

Instead, he gets up and finds his address book and a pen. Once everything from that slip is copied into the ‘C’ section of the book, he throws it out and goes back to the filing cabinet. Now it’s not going anywhere, not that it really fucking matters. His sister doesn’t want to hear from him.

By the time the only thing he has left to do is oil his gun, his mind refuses to get the fuck off tomorrow. Half of him is positive he’s going to end up murdered on the courthouse steps. If he gets Middlebrook and Williams convicted, one of them might turn on Costello pre-sentencing, or at least on French, and both those fuckers are smart enough to know about the possibility. Sean wouldn’t put it past either of them to have a cop killed. Hell, they’ve done it, and he knows it. That knowing is from hearing only whispers, though, and it was before his time, nothing he has a prayer of proving.

He just might get the privilege of being next.

Shaking his head at himself, he finishes oiling the gun and reassembles it, then loads the clip.

If he sleeps with it under his pillow that night, no one has to know.


	8. Chapter 8

The attorneys selected the jury the week before, and Soares told Sean to be at the courthouse by eight-thirty, even though court isn’t supposed to start until nine. He’s the only witness scheduled for the day, and isn’t _that_ fun. He brings a book, and once he checks in with Soares, distracting her from muttering her opening statement under her breath, he heads for one of the witness rooms to wait.

And wait.

He’s not called until just after ten, and when the bailiff comes, he makes absolutely certain his pager is off. The book, he leaves in the witness room when he follows the bailiff to the courtroom.

He’s never testified before. Most cops who went through the academy when he did would have already testified at least a couple of times, but most of them wouldn’t have been undercover. Hell, even Easley has been on the stand a few times, courtesy of being a detective before he got hired by Van Kais.

Not that it matters. It’s going to happen again and again, for as long as he’s a cop.

Sean is sworn in and takes the stand. Soares stands and walks him through the basics: name, date of birth, where he’s from, when he became a cop, all that boring stuff, and then it’s on to the meat of it.

“Detective, when did you become an undercover officer?” Soares asks.

“In 1992, just after I graduated the academy.”

“How did that come about?”

“I was approached by Lieutenant Charles Queenan, who’s now Captain Queenan, and Captain Kenneth Harris, who’s now retired, just before I finished at the academy. I was asked to go undercover in an effort to investigate Frances Costello’s operations because I’m from South Boston and I can fit in there easily. I accepted.”

Soares nods. “How did you initially work your way into the organization you were investigating?”

“I was put in contact with a confidential informant. This informant introduced me to Andrew Middlebrook as someone who had some money to invest.”

“And where did you get this money?”

“The department funneled it to me.”

“Were you ever asked if you were a police officer?”

“Once,” Sean says. “I was asked by Arnold French.”

“And what did you say?”

“I said I wasn’t.”

Judge Goldstein holds up a hand when Soares is about to continue. “You lied about being a police officer?”

“Yes sir.”

“And this is legal.” He’s not asking, but Sean answers anyway.

“It’s a myth that officers have to disclose our status when asked by anyone, including those being investigated. It’s how we’re able to perform undercover operations and things like prostitution and narcotics stings without being hamstrung.”

Judge Goldstein looks satisfied. He sits back and nods at Soares.

“Detective,” she says, and Sean figures she’s trying to remember what comes next in her questioning, “what was your primary goal in your investigation?”

“To find evidence on the leaders of Frances Costello’s organization, including Frances Costello and Arnold French, who were and are both suspected of, among other things, multiple homicides in the state.”

“How were you going about that?”

“I started at the bottom. I began as the lackey for one of the crews and passed what I knew back to my lieutenant and my captain. My goal was to work my way into Frances Costello and Arnold French’s confidences and gather evidence, preferably taped confessions, from them.”

“Did you manage that?”

“I did not get the confessions, but I did get evidence that I passed on to my superiors.”

Soares doesn’t go further in that direction, which is a good thing, because he’d have to ask her why the fuck French and Costello haven’t been arrested, and that would piss off her and the judge, and probably make the defense attorney happy. “Did you work with both Andrew Middlebrook and Frederick Williams?”

“Yes.”

“How did the crew you worked on function?”

This is the good stuff, the case-making stuff. “Our crew had eight men: myself, Andrew Middlebrook, Frederick Williams, Geoff Adams, David Fitzpatrick, Brandon Coffee, James King, and Peter Heath. Williams headed the crew, but he and Middlebrook worked together on nearly everything.”

“How did you learn as much as you did about the workings of the crew?”

“I was the new guy, so I made it sound like I wanted to be Costello’s new favorite. They bought it, and I learned what I needed to learn.”

“Did this crew deal drugs?”

“Yes,” he says.

“Did those on the crew use them?”

“Some of them probably did, based on their behaviors, but I never witnessed anything beyond smoking marijuana.”

“Did _you_ ever use drugs?”

“I did not.”

Soares nods, like he’s doing well, which he knows. “At any point, did you pressure or coerce anyone into incriminating actions?”

He feels his shoulders tense and bites back the automatic answer. “No. I didn’t have to.”

“Did you, at any point, hurt anyone?”

“Yes, twice, when I had no other choice.”

“Tell the court about those times.”

Sean glances at his hands, tight around each other, for a moment, then back up. “Other than fistfights, there was one instance in which Williams and I were trying to find money a bookie owed to the crew. Williams wanted to beat the information out of him. I knew he’d hurt the guy badly. So I volunteered to do it, and I pulled my punches enough that the guy didn’t end up in the hospital like he would have if Williams did it.”

“Did you get the money?”

Sean nods. “He told us where he’d hidden it. His refrigerator had a false back.”

“Was there another time?” Soares asks.

“Yes. Again with Williams, there was someone who was supposed to be informing to the Boston police. We found him, and Williams suggested I send a message. I resisted, and he pulled a gun on me. So it was a choice between beating this supposed informant or ending up dead and having the man also end up dead.”

Apparently satisfied with making him feel like shit, she moves on. “Did you witness Mr. Williams committing any other crimes?”

Good, stuff that doesn’t make him look like a total asshole, just makes Williams look that way. Sean goes through the drugs, and when he gets to the murder of Owen Phillips, she stops him.

“Detective, did you personally witness the murder of Mr. Phillips?”

“I did.” That memory still sneaks up on him.

“Describe what happened.”

“I was in the house at 8762 Thompson Avenue, counting kilogram packages of cocaine to pass on to my handlers. I heard Middlebrook shout something outside, so I went to the window and pushed aside the curtain. Williams pushed a black man, who pushed him back. Then Middlebrook took out his gun and slammed it into the man’s head.” Sean touches his head on the right side, near his temple. “Right here. Williams then pulled his own gun and aimed it at the man’s chest. He fired into the left side of the man’s chest and Middlebrook fired into the man’s head. They looked at each other and then came inside, and I let the curtain drop. When I asked what had happened, they said that was Phillips and that he’d been trying to move in on the territory for weeks, but they’d never mentioned him before.”

“Were you wearing a wire?”

“I was.”

“People’s first, Your Honor, the recording from the wire Detective Dignam wore on August third, 1997. May I play it?” Soares asks.

Judge Goldstein nods. “Go ahead, Counselor.”

Soares takes the recording from its bag as her co-counsel lifts a small stereo from the floor. She puts the tape in and hits play, and the sound of Middlebrook and Williams’ voices, along with Sean’s own, fill the air. He’s pretty pleased, listening to the tape, with how he called them by name when he asked each of them what happened, how he sounded like he passed it off as just curiosity about what the fuck was going on.

At the point where Middlebrook says, “We need to get this shit out of here,” Soares stops the tape.

“Is that the recording made after the murder of Owen Phillips?”

Sean nods. “It is.”

“Counselor, do you have much to go?” Judge Goldstein asks.

“I do, Your Honor. It should take at least half an hour.”

“We’ll recess now for lunch. Court will continue at one, and the witness will return.” He slams his gavel and stands. After he’s gone, the jury is led away through a door to their room, and everyone else leaves.

The hard part of the day, it turns out, isn’t talking about the two people he hurt. It’s refraining from slugging the defense attorney during cross-examination. The asshole drags it out and pokes every sore spot of the investigation.

But Sean doesn’t slug him. He keeps his voice as even as he possibly can, and Soares fights the fucker as much as she can, objecting to his douchebag comments and everything, and at four-forty-five, according to Sean’s watch, he finally says, “No further questions.”

Judge Goldstein looks at Soares, who says, “No redirect at this time, Your Honor.”

“You may step down,” Judge Goldstein says to Sean, who finishes the water the bailiff brought at two and stands to leave the witness box and the courtroom. Soares will let him know if she needs him again, but for now, after a full fucking day on the stand, he’s done with this shit.


	9. Chapter 9

Robert greets Sean on Saturday with, “I don’t have a nail gun.”

“Two hammers?” Sean asks.

“Yeah. I didn’t see the point in getting a gun. We can both swing them.”

“Damn right,” Sean agrees.

“Everything’s already in the garage. Come on in.” Robert steps back. “I’ll get my shoes and be right out.”

Sean nods and opens the garage door and examines the boards and walls. Exposed rafters above, so that’s probably where he’s planning to connect the support posts, exposed studs on the walls… yeah, they can do this with no problem. And there’s the circular saw and sawhorses by the workbench, the hammers and measuring tape on it, the lumber stacked at the front of the garage.

Robert joins him a moment later and gestures. “I marked the wood already with the cut lines. I just feel better actually cutting when there are two people.”

“Smart.” Sean grabs the sawhorses and starts to leave the garage. “On the lawn?”

“Yep.” Robert takes down a coiled extension cord and, a moment later, comes out with the saw, unraveling the cord as he walks. “We need to cut some of the four-by-fours and four of the one-by-twelves. The beams in the back are already the right length.

“Ten foot?” Sean asks. “Connecting to the rafters?”

“That’s what I was thinking, and then the other four-bys as support from the posts to the studs, and one-bys for the actual shelving.”

“That sounds like the best way to do it. Should be perfectly stable,” Sean agrees. “You have a drill, right?”

“Yeah. I wasn’t planning to hammer straight into studs without pilot holes.”

Sean snorts. “Not that we _couldn’t_ , but it would’ve been a real bitch. You have brackets already?”

“They’re in the workbench, with the nails.”

Sean and Robert both go back in then and each pick up a couple of four-bys. Sean can see a smooth, straight pencil line on one of them. “So are you planning to seal these, or leave them bare board?” he asks as they walk back out.

“Bare board for now. I may seal them later, but they should be fine. I don’t have termites.”

Sean holds in an offer to do it for him. Maybe later. “I’ll hold,” he says instead. “Don’t cut off your finger. Been a long time since I took any first aid.”

“Put it on ice and call 911. Don’t try to sew it on by yourself.” Robert sets down all but one of his four-bys and instead puts that one across the sawhorses.

“I wouldn’t. I can’t sew straight to save my life.”

Robert smirks. “There’s going to be some scrap wood. I have no idea what I’m doing with that.”

“Shove it somewhere,” Sean says, straight-faced, and stands beside him, holding the post. Robert laughs and fires up the saw, and once the first section is cut, they move the post, he cuts the next one, and they keep going.

They have a good pile of twenty-four-inch-long sections of four-by-fours when they’re done. The one-by-twelves go much faster. Only four of them actually need to be trimmed, eight feet down to six. Sean figures those are going to be at the front of the garage, near the door into the house.

“You’re sure you don’t want to seal these?” Sean asks when they’re done. “Single-coat seal wouldn’t take long. If we do the posts first, we’ll be able to get them in by the time we’re done sealing the rest of these.”

“Do you think it needs it?” Robert asks.

Sean shrugs. “It sure as hell wouldn’t hurt, and it would help keep the boards from warping if it gets too muggy. It’d also help protect the posts if your garage floods.”

“That’s a good point.” Robert studies the wood. “I guess I’m getting sealant. Help yourself to a drink or something to eat, if you want. I’ll be back soon.” He heads inside, and Sean follows, drawing a glass of water before going back out to investigate the garage as Robert leaves, keys in hand. He calls from the street, “Drop cloths and brushes are in one of the rafter boxes.”

That question answered, Sean puts his glass on the workbench. He sets the ladder in the middle of the garage, tests its steadiness, and climbs to snoop. Not too much, but he does glance in the boxes marked as Christmas decorations and one of the childhood stuff ones. When he finds the painting supplies box, he carefully climbs down the ladder with it.

By the time Robert gets back with a gallon of sealant, Sean has a plastic drop cloth spread on the garage floor and the posts laid out, the scrap wood from cutting the one-by-twelves pinning down the corners of the plastic. There’s a second one on the driveway with the two-foot-long pieces spread out, and Robert smiles at him. “Thanks.”

“I said I’d help.” Sean finds the flathead screwdriver he saw in the workbench and offers it, handle-first, to Robert. While Robert opens the sealant and stirs it, Sean grabs two brushes from the box.

“So we’re protecting wood before we hammer it,” Robert muses, and Sean snickers. He dips his brush in and gets started on one of the posts in the middle, and Robert works on the one next to it.

“Do I get paid back for this work?” Sean teases.

“I’ll hammer your wood,” Robert mutters, and Sean laughs.

“I’ll probably take you up on that.”

“So where is this going?”

Sean glances over, but Robert’s eyes are steadfastly on the post he’s sealing. “What?”

“If you want it to just be fucking and spending time together,” Robert continues, “that’s fine. I have absolutely no problem with that. I just want to know where we stand.”

Sean blinks. “I thought we were dating.”

Robert glances at him. “Which raises the question of if it’s exclusive dating or not.”

Sean dips his brush again and applies a few strokes to the post before answering. “I want it to be.” He glances up in time to see Robert relax.

“Glad we’re on the same page.”

That fortunately done, Sean asks, “For an MFA, do you have to actually produce art?”

Robert laughs. “Ah, yes, you do.”

“What did you do?” Sean finishes his post and moves on to another.

“I could show you, if you want. There’s a framed drawing in the guest room that I did, actually.”

“That would be cool,” Sean agrees. “You were good, weren’t you?”

He can almost hear Robert’s smile. “That might be bragging.”

“It’s not bragging if it’s true.” That’s always been Sean’s logic.

“Some of my classmates were better, but I’m all right.”

“Am, huh? You still draw?”

“It’s cheap for birthday or Christmas presents,” Robert says. “And I like to keep my hand in. It’s fun.”

“Nothing wrong with having fun.” Sean’s hands are getting sticky from the sealant. “So once the tops and sides of these are done, I thought we’d flip them and do the ends and backs.”

“Sure, then tackle the others?”

“Yeah. I saw another drop cloth in that box, so we could spread it and put the boards down. One of us can do those and the other does the four-bys while these dry. Then we can work on getting these posts hammered in.”

“I’ll go up on the ladder, if you’re okay holding it. The drill should be charged. It has a cord in case it isn’t, but that’s a pain compared to the battery.”

“Okay. You think we can finish today?”

“I’m pretty determined, but if we don’t, do you just want to stay the night so we can do it in the morning?” Robert’s voice is far more innocent than that sentence probably deserves.

“I think we can do it tonight and in the morning,” Sean says, keeping his voice just as level. “We should be done with all that hammering and pounding by lunch tomorrow .”

Robert’s the first to break, leaning over across the wood to kiss Sean when they both stop laughing. Sean kisses him back. Then he remembers the garage door is open and anyone could see, and he decides he really does not give a rat’s ass and wouldn’t even if half the force lived on Robert’s street.

By the time everything is sealed, they have to peel the poles away from the plastic, and they’re a little tacky but still workable. They line the poles up with the studs. Sean holds them in place with one hand and keeps the other on the ladder while Robert drills into the rafter beam and then the pole to secure them together.

“Having fun drilling the wood?” Sean asks him during a pause.

He laughs. “I’d have more fun drilling you.”

“I wouldn’t object to that,” Sean says, grinning up at him.

“I’ll keep that in mind.” Then Robert’s drilling again, into the rafter.

By the time all the poles are up, the cut sections of four-by-four are mostly dry. They take turns holding those in place while the brackets are hammered in underneath for both levels of shelving.

“It’s fucking hot,” Sean mutters around four, when the humidity has really settled in.

Robert glances at him. “Want to stop? We could take a break to eat, or just end for the night.”

Sean shrugs. “Let’s eat, then come back. You have a box fan or anything we could set up?”

“Oh, yeah, I do. I’ll grab it before we come back out. That would help.”

Sean hefts the hammer again and twists to work on the bracket going into the brace. “Soon as this one’s done,” he suggests. “I’m getting hungry anyway.”

“Me too,” Robert says. “Mind if we just order something?”

“Right now, I’ll eat sawdust and grass clippings if you dress them up.”

“I’ll take that as a yes.”

While they eat, Sean tries to ignore the thought gnawing at the edge of his mind: what’s he going to call Robert? Not “boyfriend”; that conjures high school and jeering kids. Not “significant other”; that sounds like he’s playing games about the gender of his… whatever. Not “partner”; they haven’t been dating anywhere near long enough, and anyway, “partner” means something different to him. “The guy I’m dating” is just too long.

Not that there is anyone he should call Robert anything _to_ , and if he did, they’d know who Robert is anyway. Queenan does.

“You done?” Robert asks after a few minutes of eating in silence, and Sean realizes his plate is clean.

“Yeah.” He stands and starts closing cartons. “You think we can finish today?”

“Probably.” Robert stacks their plates and shrugs. “If not, we can get all the beams up and hammer on the shelving in the morning. That won’t take long.”

Sean nods, considering that. “I thought I’d stay the night.”

Robert smiles, looking pleased. “I hoped you would.”

They sleep tangled together, a mass of limbs, and Sean’s sleep is heavy and dreamless. In the morning, he wakes because he’s rocking his hips against Robert’s, and Robert stirs a moment later. They’re both still half-asleep as they rut together, and Sean doesn’t really wake up until he comes, his cock flush against Robert’s, and Robert finishes a second later, both their hips still moving.

“Guess we’re starting the day with a shower,” Sean mutters, and Robert kisses him.

“We’ll save water.”

They don’t, really, but Sean doesn’t mind. Neither does Robert, who has to foot the bill. And after they finish the shelves, they shower off sweat and dust together instead of sweat and come.

He doesn’t leave until almost four, even though the shelves are done before noon. As he drives back to his apartment, he tries to figure out just when he got to the point of being able to spend time with someone, doing nothing in particular. Near as he can figure, it happened somewhere between getting out of undercover in September and meeting Robert in May. It sure as shit isn’t something he could safely do for those five years. Even the girls he fucked then, he met them in a bar, went back to their places, and wham bam thank you ma’am.

The shrink would probably try to take credit for Sean’s ability to interact with people. He wouldn’t deserve it.


	10. Chapter 10

“Still no word from Hardison?” Sean asks after he and Queenan have talked about who they’re meeting today, what they’re working on.

Queenan stills. “I would tell you if she’d called in.”

Sean nods. “Thought I’d ask anyway.”

“I’m worried about her,” Queenan admits. “She’s never gone this long without contact. _You_ never went this long, and you could be one of my worst.”

Based on Queenan’s tone and educated guessing, Sean has a pretty good idea what happens with just about every undercover who doesn’t call in for this long. “Haven’t found a body. That’s a good sign.”

“It is,” Queenan concedes. “Nicastro would want us to know if she was made.”

Sean nods. “What are we doing with Easley?”

“I’m talking to him later today, after his meeting with the ADA. I like Connelly. He’s done well in other cases, not ours, but he still has a good record. He’ll see this through. I think Easley would fit White Collar best, with his history.” Queenan takes off his glasses and pockets them. “I’d like you to come to supper on Thursday night.”

Sean starts. “Excuse me, Captain?”

“You heard me, Sean. Supper on Thursday. My wife’s going to cook. You’ll like my son, and Elizabeth has heard enough about you that she wants to meet you.”

That’s far too much to take in all at once. The first thing to come out of Sean’s mouth is, “Why?”

Queenan doesn’t look offended by the question. “You don’t have a family, or anyone you spend time with outside Robert. I like you. Elizabeth and Patrick will like you. Don’t wear a tie and don’t swear around Elizabeth unless you want a good scolding. Seven-thirty Thursday. I’ll give you my address.”

“I don’t get a say in this?”

“Do you have a date?” Queenan counters.

Sean has to shake his head, because he does on Wednesday and Friday but not Thursday.

“Then you don’t. Seven-thirty,” Queenan reiterates. He points to a stack of folders. “Those are for you. We need to get someone wormed in with Nicastro, since we don’t know where Hardison is.”

“What am I looking for?”

“You’ll know when you see it.” Queenan puts his glasses back on and opens a folder of his own. Sean hefts the pile and leaves for his office.

By the fifth file, Sean sees that none of the candidates have much in the way of family, no parents in the picture or close siblings, and none are married or have kids. So he can’t use that as a way to narrow things down. They can use pseudonyms, like Hardison did or maybe does, if they don’t already have Italian names, so that’s out.

He starts looking at birthplaces, where they’ve lived. Accents could play a part. But that’s not what he needs, and he knows it. There’s something else, more. He needs smart candidates, ones who are used to playing parts, shifting identities. Guys like him.

The one woman candidate is a surprise, even though she shouldn’t be, given Hardison. Most of their other undercovers, though, are men; there’s one woman working narcotics and some others in prostitution, but the rest are men. She fits Sean’s off-the-cuff criteria, and she sort of looks Italian, too, with dark hair and eyes, so he sets her file off to one side.

By the time he’s weeded through the twenty-plus folders Queenan gave him, he has three candidates: Ava Brown, Ben Olson, and Tobias Silverman. He could just bring those to Queenan, but that feels like slacking, so he goes through their files again, examining everything from Brown’s arrest for assault—no charges filed—to Silverman’s _summa cum laude_ degree in biology from Suffolk, to Olson’s move from Brooklyn, apparently purely to become a Statie. He makes notes on all three of them, ones he can present to Queenan if he needs to, and gets up to bring them back in.

“I’m wary of putting another woman in with him so soon,” Queenan says after looking through the files. “If Hardison was made, he’d be suspicious of another woman.”

“Brown has that assault arrest,” Sean points out. “If you want to go with her, she could use it to her advantage.”

“Are you invested in her?”

Sean shrugs. “She reminds me of someone.”

Queenan gives him a considering look. “I’ll read all three of these more closely. They all have potential. We could put one in with Costello, if we want another person with him, and one in narcotics. We can always use more there. We’ll discuss it after I go through these.”

Sean nods. “Do you want me to do the briefing at two?”

“I need to talk to White Collar’s captain then,” Queenan says, nodding. “It’s just the usual.”

Sean nods back and heads for the door; he has to set up an appointment with Connelly to find out how the case is going, and they have a meeting with an undercover at four. In the meantime, he might study for the sergeants’ exam.

Wednesday night, he tells Robert, “I’m apparently meeting my captain’s family tomorrow night.”

Robert raises his eyebrows. “That’s unusual, isn’t it?”

“Hell if I know.” Sean shrugs. “He didn’t exactly give me a choice.”

“He probably thought you’d say no.”

Sean gives him a look.

“You’re not exactly an open person, and if you’re meeting your captain’s wife and kid—you said he has a kid, right?”

“Yeah. Patrick’s in high school. I think he’s a junior.”

“You have to be kind of open if you’re meeting them. Obviously he cares about you.”

Sean rolls his eyes. “I know all that shit. It’s still going to be awkward as fuck.”

“Bring a bottle of wine as an icebreaker.”

“Dating a social person has its advantages. Who would have thought?” Sean laughs at Robert’s expression and puts down his menu. “Are you ready?”

So Thursday, over lunch, Sean goes out and buys a twenty dollar bottle of red, one he tried after getting out of Costello’s crew and remembers liking. Even if they don’t drink it tonight, it’s probably a nice gesture. He just hopes Mrs. Queenan isn’t a recovering alcoholic or anything.

He gets to the Queenan house just before seven-thirty, wine in hand. The house looks loved, like the Queenans treasure their home. There’s a small statue of a cherub in the corner of a window, and it manages to not be creepy. He knocks, and a woman about Queenan’s age opens the door, already smiling. Sean feels his shoulders loosen.

“You must be Sean! I’m Elizabeth. Come in.”

“Mrs. Queenan, it’s nice to meet you. I brought…” He holds out the wine, and her smile deepens.

“Thank you. That’s very thoughtful. Call me Elizabeth.”

Sean steps in. “That’s probably not going to happen,” he says, grinning. “I don’t call the captain by name, so I can’t call you by name.”

She makes a _psh_ sound and turns. “Supper’s nearly ready. Charlie and Patrick are out back at the barbecue. You’re free to join them.”

At least he’ll know one of them. Sean follows her to a back door leading from the parlor to the deck, where Queenan and a teenage boy are sitting around a small glass table. There’s a small lawn, but most of the yard looks like it’s taken up with a carefully-constructed vegetable garden. “Hi, Captain.”

Queenan glances over and smiles broadly. “Sean, you came after all. I was going to send Elizabeth after you if you didn’t. This is my son, Patrick. Patrick, Sean.”

The kid smiles. He looks like Queenan, the same broadness to his shoulders and the same blue eyes. He’s blond, like Mrs. Queenan, and looks like he’s a couple inches taller than his father. “Nice to meet you. Dad keeps talking about you.”

“I confess,” Queenan says.

“I hope he says decent things.” When Queenan gestures to a chair, Sean sits. “He talks about you and your mother, you know.”

Patrick eyes Queenan. “What do you say?”

“I talk about your grades, so you should probably keep them up,” Queenan says blandly.

Patrick rolls his eyes, and Sean laughs. “He’s proud of you,” he says, his voice low, and Patrick smiles widely.

“I knew it.”

“You should. I tell you enough.”

“That’s not the same as bragging about me, and you know it.”

“You should have heard him when you and your debate partner went national,” Sean says. “I didn’t think he’d ever stop.”

“He’s a good kid, well worth bragging about.” Queenan gets up and heads for the barbecue. “I hope you like steak.”

“Love it.”

“Good, because it’s almost done. Patrick, go tell your mother.”

The boy gets up, and once he’s inside, Sean says, “He seems like a good kid.”

“Yeah, he is. He’s planning on law school. I’m pushing for Notre Dame.”

“The life of a good Catholic kid,” Sean says gravely.

“You make fun, but it’s going to be a good education, wherever he goes.”

“Your wife’s nice.”

“She’s a lot more than nice. You’re going to love her.”

“Can I give you a hand?”

“No, sit. I’m almost done.” As though to prove it, Queenan takes the steaks off the grill and covers them with foil.

“I brought wine. Red,” Sean says, for lack of anything else to talk about in the strangeness of being invited to his boss’s house for supper. “Seems like I guessed well.”

“You did,” Queenan says. He closes the lid of the barbecue. “We’ll have it tonight. Or there’s beer in the fridge, if you prefer.”

“No, it’s good. I had it after you pulled me out of undercover.”

Patrick pulls open the door and says, “Mom says supper’s ready and to bring the steak in.”

Sean gets up and grabs the plate of steak before Queenan can. He might be a guest, but he’s not going to be useless.

Mrs. Queenan has the table loaded with food, and Sean has to wonder if they eat like this every night. Cottage fries, a corn casserole, salad, a platter of fruit of all things, and the steaks in his hands.

“Go ahead and set those down,” Mrs. Queenan says. “You’ll sit across from Patrick.”

“It’s usually best to just do what she says,” Queenan says, in a way that makes it clear how much he loves her.

So Sean does. The kid grins at him. “What’s it like, working with my dad?”

“Pretty good. I thought you guys would have a dog, part of that whole All-American Family thing.”

Clearly, this is an old argument. “Dad and I _wanted_ one—still want one—but Mom won’t let us.”

“I would end up taking care of it, even though it would be your dog. And now you’re leaving in a year and a few months, so I’d be fully responsible.”

“I would take it for walks when I got home, Elizabeth.”

“That’s not enough, Charlie.” She settles in her chair, and Queenan takes his. “We say Grace,” she adds to Sean. “You don’t have to, of course.”

“I grew up Catholic,” Sean says, a non-answer, but it makes her smile. Purely out of respect for them, he bows his head when Queenan says Grace, but he doesn’t pray. He hasn’t prayed in at least a decade, and he’s not going to start now.

“How has work been?” Mrs. Queenan asks after, when they’re passing dishes and serving themselves.

“Classified,” Queenan says before Sean can answer.

“Sometimes I think you say that just to avoid talking about it.”

To Sean, Queenan says in a stage whisper, “She’s not wrong.”

Sean smirks and takes some of the cottage fries. “Do you have a job?” he asks Patrick.

“Not yet. But I’m interviewing for a summer job on Saturday, checking bags.”

“I unloaded trucks and stocked shelves in high school. Girls like knowing you have a job instead of sitting around all summer.”

“That’s what I thought,” Patrick agrees with a smile. “I worked there last summer. Besides, it means money for dates.”

Mrs. Queenan gives Patrick a look that seems to mean _that’s_ been the subject of conversation before, too. “Are you seeing anyone, Sean?”

Fortunately, Sean is mid-sip of wine. It gives him a chance to attempt to override an edge of panic. And then Queenan intervenes.

“He has a boyfriend. Very nice, from everything he’s told me.”

Sean shoots his captain a look, which Queenan ignores.

“Oh, that’s wonderful! Why didn’t you bring him tonight? There’s plenty of food.”

Good thing Sean’s not eating. He might have choked.

“Next time, right, Sean?” That’s another non-question from Queenan.

“I’m sure he’d like that,” Sean almost mumbles, and focuses on his food instead of the absolutely baffling conversation.

“What’s his name?” Patrick asks.

“Robert.”

“We almost named Patrick ‘Robert’,” Mrs. Queenan says. “I like the story of Saint Patrick, though.”

Patrick gives Sean a long-suffering look, and Sean nearly laughs at him. Kid obviously knows how good he has it.

“So Notre Dame, huh?” he asks.

“At least for law school.” Patrick sounds positive he’ll make it there. “I might try for Harvard for undergrad, though. Where did you go?”

“Suffolk. It’s not a bad school, but it’s no Harvard.”

“He did well, too,” Queenan says. He’d know.

“What did you study?” Mrs. Queenan asks.

“Sociology. Crime and Justice.”

She nods. “You always wanted to be a trooper?”

Sean shrugs. “From the time I figured out I’d be miserable if I slung boxes the rest of my life, yeah. I got my act together, pulled up my grades, got scholarships. I’m a Southie kid, and my parents didn’t have the money for college, so I saved from my jobs.” They didn’t give much of a damn, either, but he did fine for himself.

“Jobs, plural?” Patrick asks.

“I worked with a carpenter during the day and in the grocery store at night.” He gives Patrick a pointed look. “Keep your grades as good as your dad says they are so you don’t have to do that, too.”

Patrick raises his hands over his head. “I’m planning on it. Law schools don’t really care why you go to college late or don’t do well or whatever.”

Mrs. Queenan looks amused by the exchange. “Charlie wanted to be a trooper from before I knew him,” she tells Sean.

“Elizabeth.”

“If we’re prying into his life, he’s going to hear about yours, Charlie.”

“When did you meet?” Sean asks.

“In high school,” Queenan says. “English class, senior year, when my family moved and I transferred to Elizabeth’s school.”

“Then we went to college together and got married after,” Mrs. Queenan continues, part of the obviously well-worn telling of their story. “Charlie became a trooper and went undercover in the same gang Frank Costello was in. I was so afraid he’d end up dead.”

“You’ve known Costello that long?” This is news.

“Unfortunately,” Queenan says. “It would be useful to us if it didn’t mean he’s known me just as long. You know what he’s like, and _that_ is all we’re saying about Costello over supper.”

Mrs. Queenan purses her lips. “Anyway, he was undercover for… how long, Charlie?”

“Six years.”

“Six years, and then there were the trials. Scared me just as much, since he was testifying. I didn’t want to try for children until we were sure Charlie was mostly safe.”

“Until _you_ were sure,” Queenan corrects, and Sean can tell that’s part of their routine with this story.

She waves that off. “Then we were blessed with Patrick, and he’s everything we could want.”

The kid flushes. “ _Mom_.”

“Shush, Patrick, it’s the truth.”

Sean grins. “You’re lucky,” he tells Patrick.

He shrugs. “I guess,” but he’s smiling, just slightly.

“Do you smoke, Sean? So many troopers do.”

Sean shakes his head. “I did for a while when I was undercover, but I quit fast after.”

“Good. I was so glad when Charlie quit.”

Sean tries hard, and barely manages, to stifle a laugh and catches Queenan’s hard look. Queenan smokes nearly every time they meet one of their undercovers. “When did that happen?” he asks instead.

“About five years ago,” she says.

“Oh, that’s… that’s good.” Sean takes a bite of his steak before he can laugh or anything that will give his captain away.

Sean insists on helping to clear up, and he drafts Patrick, which means Mrs. Queenan can take her wine and sit in the parlor. Queenan joins her, which leaves Patrick to ask, “What’s it really like to work with my dad? I don’t mean the stuff you can’t talk about,” he adds hastily. “I mean him.”

Sean debates his word choice for a minute as he scrubs the casserole dish. “Pretty damn good,” he says at last. “Your dad’s been really good the whole time I’ve been out of undercover. He was great when I was in, too, came every time I had to talk to him.” And probably saved his life, but he’s not telling Patrick that. “He’s the only person I told about Robert. I trust him.”

“You don’t like a lot of people, do you?”

He glances at the kid. “You sure you don’t want to be a cop?”

Patrick snorts.

“No, I don’t. I don’t trust a lot, either.”

“But you like my mom.”

“Is there anyone who _doesn’t_ like your mom?” Sean ruffles Patrick’s hair with a wet hand, and Patrick ducks away. “I like you, too.”

“Good. I like you. I want to meet Robert,” he adds.

“Everyone wants to meet Robert. If I get invited back, I’ll bring him.”

“Dad said ‘next time’,” Patrick points out. “You’ll get invited. Besides, Mom really likes you.”

“Does she?” That feels oddly good.

“Yeah. Mom likes a lot of people, but she really likes you. She was acting like she does with my friends she likes.” Patrick shrugs. “Which is good, because Dad _also_ really likes you.”

“I knew that one,” Sean says grudgingly.

“Do you have any friends besides my dad and Robert?”

Sean gives him a sideways look. “I don’t know if I’d call your dad a friend.”

“So you don’t.”

“Well, there’s you now.”

“And my mom.”

“Again, don’t know if I’d say friend.”

“What would you say?”

“Do you always pry like this?”

“Hey, if Dad’s adopting you, I’m going to bug you.” Patrick grins at him.

“What?”

“You heard me.”

Sean shakes his head and moves on to the plates.

After they’re done with the dishes, they join Patrick’s parents in the parlor, and Mrs. Queenan fixes Sean with a look. “Tell me about Robert.”

He has no idea what this night actually is, besides that maybe everyone involved has been drugged, and that it’s surprisingly good.


	11. Chapter 11

The problem with Robert’s height versus Sean’s is the ridiculous difference that makes face-to-face sex difficult for kissing. They could make it work—Sean did with a woman who was just under five feet tall, and he and Robert have done it some—but it’s mostly not worth it when they’re fucking fast and hard.

Robert falls off to the side just after he finishes and pulls off the condom, tying it and dropping it in the trash. “That was fun,” he says after a moment of breathing hard.

Sean catches his breath and looks over at him, grinning, before leaning over him to grab a tissue. “I’d say more than fun.” He wipes himself clean and tosses away the tissue.

“Oh, would you?” Robert gives him a self-satisfied smile. “Then I guess I did what I was supposed to.”

“Oh Christ yes.” Sean flops back onto his back and turns his head to kiss Robert’s shoulder. “Staying tonight?”

“I have absolutely nothing going on in the morning, so if you want me, I’m all yours.”

“I might take advantage of that.”

They lie in companionable silence for a few minutes, until Robert says, “You never talk about your family.”

Sean lifts a shoulder. “Not a lot to talk about. My parents fucking blow. My sister and I haven’t talked in years.”

Robert’s quiet a moment, before he asks, “Why don’t you and your sister talk?”

Sean’s just glad he didn’t ask about his parents. “She married a bastard and I pointed it out after about five years. She didn’t want to hear it. I sent her and her daughters birthday and Christmas cards for two years after that, but she never contacted me, so I stopped. I figured she didn’t want to hear from me.”

“What’s she like?” Robert’s not pushing. He just sounds curious, so Sean gives it some consideration.

“She’s pretty smart, did well in school when she put in the effort. She never went to college—she was pregnant with Ursula by the end of her senior year, and Richard said he’d support them if she stayed home with the baby. Carrie never felt like she had a lot of choices, even when we were kids. She just did what she was told to do. By the time Ursula was old enough for preschool, she had Ophelia, and Richard made her stay home more.” Sean shrugs. “Two years after that, I heard Richard telling her she’d never be good for being anything but the girls’ mother and she wasn’t even good at that when I was there for Christmas. I slugged him. Carrie got pissed, we fought, I told her Richard is an asshole, and she kicked me out. I had to hitch to the bus station. That’s when it got reduced to cards and her not talking to me.” That reminds him. He shifts, pushing at his pillow, and adds, “I found her address when I cleaned the place out.”

“Did you save it?”

“Yeah, I wrote it in my address book, but she’s probably moved since then.” Sean shrugs. “It’s not like I’m going to do anything with it.”

“I’d like for you to meet my sisters,” Robert says. “I think I told you they’re all younger. Claudia, then Stacy, then Jenny. Jenny’s still in college. She’s sixteen years younger than me, very much the baby. She wants to be a math teacher, and she can definitely do it. Claudia’s a dental hygienist, and Stacy’s a paralegal. She doesn’t want to go to law school. They both like what they do.”

“Not all of us need postgraduate degrees to be happy,” Sean says.

“I know that. Both of them are happy, and Jenny probably just needs her bachelor’s degree to teach. I’m glad they’re happy. They’re both married. Claudia’s expecting her second and third kids. Jamie is four now, and she’s a sweetheart. I like her husband. Stacy’s too. She has a baby, Savanna.”

“… Savanna.”

“Shut up, your nieces are Ursula and Ophelia.”

“Yeah, you have a point. I like to blame Richard for that.”

Robert snorts. “Anyway, Savanna’s five months old. Stacy’s whipsmart. She’s apparently saved her boss’s hide more than once.”

“She doesn’t work for a criminal defense attorney, does she? That’s a pretty basic conflict for me.”

Robert glances at him, smiling a bit. “No, she works for a civil law firm. Litigation, contracts, real estate, that kind of thing, diversified but all civil. Anyway, I’d like you to meet them.”

Sean blinks. “I didn’t know we’re to the ‘meet the family’ point.”

Robert shrugs. “At least my sisters. I’m going down to New Jersey for the Fourth of July. I’d like you to come. My parents would be there, though, if that bothers you.”

“The Queenans want to meet you. All three of them do.” Sean’s mouth is running ahead of his brain again. It needs to stop doing that.

“Why is that?”

Sean shrugs. “Patrick said something about the captain treating me as an adopted son, and Mrs. Queenan was pretty firm about it.”

“See, we are to the point of families wanting to meet each other.”

Sean doesn’t argue, given the degree to which all the Queenans already matter more than blood.

“So do you want to come with me?” Robert continues.

“Yeah, why the fuck not.”

Robert laughs. “That’s exactly the enthusiasm I was looking for.”

“If you’ll come along the next time I’m invited to the Queenans’ for supper,” Sean adds.

“That sounds fair.” Robert rolls onto his side and kisses him. “I’m pretty wiped.”

“You can sleep. I still need to clean up.”

Robert grabs a pillow. “I’ll probably be awake when you get back.”

“Not like it’s going to take long.”

Sean hasn’t once since high school dated anyone long enough to meet her family. Dated in college, but didn’t go home with his girlfriend, then didn’t go out for more than three or four times with one girl while he was in the academy, and then just one night stands when he was undercover. Looks like the grace of staying away from family is going to change in the next few weeks.


	12. Chapter 12

They meet with their undercovers every week. It’s not always the same ones—some of them are more stable, more independent, than others, but some are in even higher-risk positions or more nervous about what they’re doing, even if they’re still good.

Russell Cody is one of the good ones, but he’s up on the rotation.

“You know the routine,” Queenan says when Cody meets them down a little-used bike path. Cody leans his bike against a tree, turning to spread his legs and put his hands behind his head. Sean pats him down, fast and light, and he’s clean. He nods to Queenan and steps back, and Cody turns back around.

“How are you doing?” Queenan asks.

“I’m fine, Captain. I had to, absolutely had to, try a small line of coke three days ago, so if you tested me I’d come up with that in my system. That was the only trouble I’ve had recently.”

“What do you mean, had to?” Sean asks.

“Word for word, ‘If you don’t try it, you’re telling me you’re a cop,’ from Vince Ott.” To be fair, if Ott says jump, dealers instantly ask how high, and when it comes to being suspected of being a cop, so do their guys. “I wasn’t that interested in finding out how slowly he’d kill me if I didn’t. He knows there’s someone, just not who.”

“What do you have on him?” Queenan asks.

“There’s a heroin shipment coming through Canada. I know that’s a weird one, but it’s making it through the border in a semi. The semi’s going to be loaded with furniture, I think.”

“Are you shitting us?” Sean asks incredulously. “Furniture dealer? Is it used?”

Queenan barely suppresses a smirk. “When is this happening?”

“Three days. It’s going to be through Vermont. I know this is an FBI, DEA thing, but I don’t want to talk to anyone but you, in case.”

Sean privately agrees on the feds. They leak. “Got anything else?”

“There’s some chick who pissed him off badly. He was smacking her around when I got there on Tuesday. Something about what she was collecting on what she dealt and how he thought she was holding back. I wanted to stop him, but he wasn’t going to kill her or even put her in the hospital from what I saw.” Cody shrugs helplessly. “There are limits, you know? For safety.”

Queenan nods. “You keep yourself safe first,” he says quietly, “but if you ever can intervene on that kind of thing, without risking your safety, try to do it.”

Cody nods. “I know. It made me sick to watch.”

Sean counts back. Three days. “That meeting was when he had you try the coke.”

“That’s right.”

Sean gives Queenan a quick glance, and Queenan gives him a small nod. They’re checking on Anderson later. “What else is he moving?” Queenan asks.

“A lot of coke, tons of marijuana, and he’s getting further into PCP, ecstasy, LSD, that kind of stuff. He still won’t touch meth. On Wednesday, there’s a big deal happening, fifteen kilos of coke and a lot of other stuff. He’ll be at the sale. I don’t know who it’s to, but I’m supposed to be there.”

“Where is it?” Queenan asks.

“Down at the docks. I’ll get you the details when I have them.”

“Make sure no one knows,” Queenan directs, “but we’ll be there. You’re doing fine, Cody.”

“Thank you, sir.” Cody grabs his bike. “I’ll call as soon as I know.”

“No more drugs,” Sean says. “It’s bad on the stand.”

“It’s better than being dead.” Cody swings onto the bike. “See you Wednesday.” Then he’s off, and Sean turns to Queenan.

“DEA for the semi, us for the Wednesday bust?”

Queenan nods. “I’ll have it set up by Monday.” He glances at his watch. “I should be able to catch Anderson and still have time for the DEA.”

“Better not be her.” They start walking up the path. “If she’s shorting Ott on shit, it’s a miracle if she’s not dead.”

“She’s not stupid, but if she’s not judging the money properly, she might have been caught. If we get Ott, we’ll take her list and round people up. Cody’s too.” Queenan glances at him. “How fast do you think someone would take Ott’s place?”

“Costello would see us hanging the welcome sign and take over within days.”

“Yeah, you’re probably right.” Queenan sighs. “We keep trying with him, but nothing ever seems to stick.”

“How much money do we get back?” Sean asks. They funnel cash to their undercovers to keep them from actually selling more than the bare minimum they have to, even though selling is a good way to collect names. Still, it’s not cheap, and Queenan has to regularly make reports on how their investigation is proceeding to keep their guys funded. This bust should help them for a couple of months at least.

“If Ott has as much cash as we suspect, then after he’s convicted, we’ll get an order for most of it to be returned to the state. It’s going to be mostly recouped, maybe even more than that.”

“If it is Anderson,” Sean starts after a moment.

“If it is, we’ll pull her. She can disappear from his radar into protection.”

That’s always an option with undercovers, Sean knows. He had it offered once when he managed to piss off French by saying the wrong thing at the wrong time, but he fixed that before things got worse.

Anderson answers her phone when Queenan calls her from his cell. Sean can’t hear her end of the conversation, but Queenan’s expression doesn’t waver, and he takes it as a good sign. Then Queenan hangs up and says, “She’s fine. She knows the woman, Caitlin Duchamps. Says she has a couple of cracked teeth and two broken ribs, not to mention the bruises, but she’ll live.”

“We’re arresting her next week anyway,” Sean points out. “She’ll get medical care.”

“Anderson’s keeping an eye on her. She’s going to let me know if Duchamps disappears, and we’ll look harder at Ott for some of the nastier things we suspect. There are a couple of homicides that have his metaphorical fingerprints on them.”

And it’s going to take a bust to bring the fucker in. Fuck, but the job is shit sometimes.

Three days later, when they’re waiting on a call from the DEA about any Capone-esque semis, Ava Brown takes a half shift off patrolling the highway to come into Queenan’s office.

“Have a seat,” Queenan says, gesturing to the chair. Sean’s leaning against the filing cabinets, and he studies her. She has muscle to her, a good amount of solid bulk going by her arms. That impression that she could pass for Italian was a good one; her coloring fits. Her makeup is careful, subtle. She looks firm.

She sits stiffly, her eyes darting like she’s expecting a reprimand. “Yes sir.” Her voice is strong, on the high side but as solid as the rest of her.

“Do you know what this unit is?”

She shrugs. “Vaguely, sir. Undercover, isn’t it?”

“Vaguely,” Sean repeats. “You have no fucking clue, Trooper.”

She gives him a look, but keeps her mouth shut. Good.

“Do you enjoy being a Statie?” Queenan asks her.

She hesitates and seems to choose her words. “I would prefer a position where I feel I’m doing more good than stopping traffic violations.”

“You want to be a cop.”

She frowns. “I am a cop.” The words are have a bone-deep conviction behind them, so solid Sean almost feels it.

“You want to do good?” Sean asks. “How much good?”

“As much as I can,” she answers without hesitation. “Whatever it takes.”

“Do you know who Peter Nicastro is?” Queenan asks, and her lips thin.

“Boston Mafia, big in prostitution, drugs, theft, extortion,” she says.

“Someone’s done her homework,” Sean comments.

“You said you want to do good,” Queenan says again. “Did you mean it?”

“I don’t know, Captain. She has that assault arrest.” He gets a pissed-off look and no comment for that. “Seems like a loose cannon to me. We can’t trust her.” He pushes off the cabinets. “Spotty education record even though she tested at a hundred and forty IQ. With that, you should be prosecuting these scumbags, not writing tickets, Trooper.”

She doesn’t take the bait, to his surprise. “You’re probably right, sir.”

“What happened there?” Queenan asks, all interested father figure, and her eyes flick to him.

“My father died when I was in middle school. My mom had terrible taste in boyfriends after. Two of them were dealers, and they had interesting predilections when they were coked up. My grades in high school tanked because I wasn’t getting any sleep and had a job that ate up most of my homework time, so I wound up struggling through community college while I worked two jobs. I joined the force with my AS, but you know that, don’t you?” That’s aimed at Sean, and he grins, all teeth.

“This assault arrest,” Queenan begins.

To Sean’s surprise, she bluntly says, “One of the boyfriends was going after my little sister. I hit him in the face with a baseball bat. City cops determined it was in defense of a child and the ADA didn’t file charges.”

“You want to be a cop?” Sean asks. “You really want to be a cop, not just flash your gun and badge and make the news after you shoot some maybe guilty asshole running because you’re armed and he just thinks you’re a dyke.”

“Detective Dignam has an interesting sense of humor,” Queenan interjects.

“I prefer gay,” she says to him flatly, and his grin is real this time. She must get such shit, a lesbian trooper, and she owns it.

“Good for you.”

“What do you need me to do?” she asks Queenan.

“We need someone in with Nicastro. You haven’t distinguished yourself, he won’t know who you are. You’ll have a record of being terminated from the force for a questionable arrest to cover your history with us. Your real record will be sealed, and only you, Detective Dignam, and myself will have the password.”

“Is it something I’ll remember?”

“It is.” It’s her fucking name. Of course it’s memorable. “For obvious reasons, you won’t be paid directly, but you’ll receive a bonus. That pays well. There is risk involved in going undercover, I need that to be clear. You’ll work your way in the best way you can without being obvious. If you can get close to Nicastro, so much the better.”

She nods. “As long as I don’t have to fuck him.”

“You know we can’t ask you to do that,” Sean says.

She looks back at him, eyes steady. “I’m not sure I’d put it past you, Detective.”

“The fuck was that?” but he’s inwardly gleeful. She’ll be fucking ace.

“Where do I sign?” she asks them both, and Queenan produces the paperwork.

Once she’s gone, Queenan looks at him. “I’m not sure if I should give you points for that technique or berate you for it.”

Sean shrugs. “It worked.”

“It did,” Queenan agrees, “and she will have to deal with you while she’s in.”

“See, it was a good idea.”

“I’ll adjust to it. I’m not sure they will.”

Sean shrugs again. “If they don’t, they’re not right for the job. She’ll be solid.”

“As long as she doesn’t push back against Nicastro too much,” Queenan says. “I’m impressed she didn’t do more than make that remark.”

“I like that remark,” Sean says. “She has bite. She’ll need it.”

“He’s not as bad as Costello, but he can be tough,” Queenan points out. “If she uses too much bite…”

“She survived those boyfriends of her mother’s, she can deal with Nicastro’s bullshit.” Sean glances at Queenan. “How fast can you push that paperwork through?”

“That’s a question for you.” Queenan hands him the folder.

“I should have known that,” Sean grumbles. He holds it up. “I’ll get everything done in an hour. Ava Brown won’t be a cop by lunch.”

“The rest of that goes in locked files I’ll keep at home,” Queenan says.

“You do that?”

“It’s safest from prying eyes,” Queenan says. “The brass knows. I’ll give you the code to the safe the next time you’re over. Do you have plans for the fourth?”

“I’m meeting the family.” Sean can’t help the twist to his mouth.

“Try not to frighten them all away,” Queenan says dryly.

“Yeah, that’d probably piss Robert off. He loves them.”

Queenan takes out his glasses and his small notebook with his coded schedule. “When is the trial supposed to conclude?”

“Hell if I know. The judge’s got something like eight separate motions, so it’s in limbo. Soares says it might be a few weeks before he makes rulings on all of them, meantime the jury’s sequestered, poor bastards, and it might end in a mistrial so I get the fun of testifying again. Mostly it’s the admissibility of evidence and testimony, but there’s something about Middlebrook’s competence.”

“What do you think?”

“Not that it matters, but he’s smarter and saner than Williams. If either of them is going to make a deal, it’s him. He’s totally competent. He’s also fucking evil.”

“We’ll pick up lunch on the way to meet with Parker.” Queenan puts his notebook back in his pocket.

Sean holds up the folder again. “I’ll handle this.”

Queenan nods, his attention already on something else.

By the time they have to meet with Parker, Brown is, in the system and outside their protected files, a fired cop. Sean calls and lets her know, and she turns in her patrol car before effectively disappearing with Queenan’s cell number tucked into her wallet. She’ll call in four days from a pay phone if she does what she’s supposed to, and they’re working on supplying her with money for a cell of her own, same as their other undercovers.

Silverman and Olson are up on the schedule to get pulled in, but Cody’s news has derailed the schedule some, and Monday afternoon, after their meeting with Parker, Queenan pulls together a bunch of troopers, mostly from narcotics.

Sean’s there in the conference room, just behind Queenan as usual for these, and he listens to his captain.

“On Wednesday night, Vince Ott is meeting with a group of buyers to sell fifteen kilos of coke, not to mention his interests in heroin, pot, and acid, enough to put them all away for life.” He lets the murmurs die down. “This is our task force to interrupt that meeting and take everyone into custody. You’ll have your vests and SWAT will be on the scene. Our primary goal is to take Ott out of the picture. Weapons will be drawn, not fired unless we see weapons on their end. This is happening at the docks. We’ll be in another warehouse. I’m going to station three uniforms, with vests, dressed as security to help alert us. We know which building they’ll be in, and we have an idea of how many people there will be. We outnumber them, which is important for our safety. I do not want a single trooper injured. Keep yourselves and each other safe. When I have the exact time of the buy, you’ll know.”

“Will an undercover be in there?” some wiseass asks, and Sean memorizes him: redhead, blue eyes, medium build. He might be a problem.

“That does not matter to the case,” Queenan says, his voice hard. “What matters is getting Ott and his people off the streets as permanently as possible. Any further questions?”

“What kind of drugs are we talking about?” That’s Figueroa.

“Cocaine is the largest part. There’s also marijuana, and there will probably be things like PCP and LSD in the mix.”

Figueroa nods, and no one else opens their mouth.

“Come to me or Detective Dignam with any further questions. We don’t answer anything about our undercovers, so don’t ask that, but anything else should be fine. That’s all I have for the day.” Queenan turns and leaves, and Sean follows after a moment of glancing around the room. No one _looks_ like an issue, but he’s watching that narcotics detective at the bust.

Two days later, they still haven’t pulled Silverman or Olson in because of a distinct lack of time. They have this bust as planned as it’s going to get. The cops have been briefed a second time with all the information Cody could get them. They stick three patrol cops in security uniforms and make sure they have radios. The rest of them get into one of the other warehouses. Queenan has his radio on and turned up while the others are softer, and Sean’s near the door, watching everyone he can see.

After fifteen minutes of quiet conversations and Queenan pacing among the cops, checking to make sure they’re ready, Sean hears the radios crackle to life.

“Ott and seven others have gone in.”

Queenan asks into his, “Are the buyers present?”

“No sign, sir.”

“Hold your position.” He looks at everyone present. “That goes for you, too.”

A few cops nod, but most of them just look ready to move, adrenaline already pumping. Sean feels it himself. He checks his watch. Cody better be right on timing.

It takes another three minutes before a different voice says, “Five others have entered the building.”

“Let’s move,” Queenan says, and Sean bursts out the door, barely ahead of the crush of bodies.

He and someone he doesn’t know are the first in the other building, bellowing, “Freeze! Massachusetts State Police!”

Vince Ott looks like he’s been hit between the eyes with a sledgehammer. He drops the wrapped package in his hands and lifts them over his head, and most of the rest follow his example. But one guy reaches back under his waistband, and Sean’s not the only one ordering, “Drop it. Drop it _now_. I _will_ shoot.”

The guy, a skinny, sour-looking bastard, stares back, like he’s considering his options—suicide by cop when maybe he’d hit one of them or drop the weapon and have that charge added—and then a gun clatters to the floor.

“Everybody up against the wall,” Queenan orders. “Hands against the wall, legs spread.”

Troopers separate the dealers, pushing them toward the wall if they seem to lag, and it takes less than ten minutes to get all the patdowns done, switchblades and semi-auto pistols collected, and cuffs slapped on. Cody is among them, and Sean just lets his eyes slide over him; they’ll pull him out before interrogations start, when the others won’t suspect him of a thing.

“You’re all under arrest,” Queenan informs them, voice raised, and reads their rights before they’re led out, one trooper for each of them, and the rest of the troopers stay behind, inventorying what was left while Queenan calls for forensics. This is probably the most boring part of the job, waiting on techs to arrive and take over so they can leave a couple uniforms behind and get back to the department. Sure, Sean doesn’t generally do interrogations, but even writing up events in a report is better than this idleness.

All that paperwork turns Wednesday into a late night, and Thursday starts the same time as always, if with a couple of extra cups of bad coffee taken black. They’ll do Cody’s debriefing on Friday, give him a day off with a uniform to keep him company.

Thursday gets interesting around ten, when Darlene calls in that Ben Olson has arrived for his appointment to have his life disrupted.

“Why’d you move from Brooklyn?” he asks Olson after Queenan’s done the very basics of sucking in an undercover.

Olson shrugs. “My family used to come up to Massachusetts during the summer. I always liked it better than New York, but it turns out there’s almost as much scum in Boston as New York.”

“That doesn’t answer the question. Your family’s in Brooklyn. You went to City College. Why leave all that? All those memories? Or are they not as good as your wholesome family, one boy and one girl, a mom and a dad, would make us believe? You running from something?” Sean knows damn well how hard he’s pushing with that, and Olson shoots him a sick glare.

“What does that matter, Detective? What could it possibly matter to whatever you pulled me in for?”

“It matters to us,” Queenan says, and Sean actually hates him a little for a split second for making it sound caring, almost concerned.

Olson pulls his shoulders back. “Do your records say I moved out into a friend’s house when I was sixteen? Or that I had to scrape through college because my old man wouldn’t give me a dime, no matter how I asked, because I got a B in my sophomore English class and that wasn’t good enough?” He glowers at Sean. “Real wholesome family, right?”

Sometimes it sucks to be the one pushing and digging, but Queenan can’t do it with his undercovers. They have to like him, trust him. They have to trust Sean too, but they don’t have to like him. “Nice sob story, kid. You done feeling sorry for yourself?”

Something flares in Olson’s eyes, anger tinged with something unreadable. “Did you call me in here just to ask about that, Captain?”

Queenan sets his hands on his desk, threading his fingers together. “Do you want to be a cop?”

From there, it’s about the same as with Brown, except Olson agrees to a jail term and Costello’s crew. Sean pities him, even if it’s willing.

Silverman is up for a transfer into sex crimes. He’d be good for it, but in a different capacity if he agrees.

“You’re sure we need someone investigating porn?” Sean asks again.

“We have suspicions about employing underage actors,” Queenan reminds him. “It’s not particularly risky, and if Silverman is moving to sex crimes anyway, he should welcome the chance to be more hands-on.”

“He might not.”

“Then we’ll find someone else.”

Sean doesn’t have a chance to answer, because there’s a knock on Queenan’s half-open door.

“Come in,” Queenan calls, and Sean turns to lean against Queenan’s desk.

Tobias Silverman is a detective with a good record. He doesn’t look it, though. He looks nervous, his hands twitching as he adjusts his glasses over his thin nose. Everything about his face is thin, eyes to lips, his cheeks almost sunken, and it fits his body. “Captain Queenan.”

“Have a seat, Detective.”

Silverman does. “Why did you want to see me, sir?”

Queenan leans forward. “You’re transferring to sex crimes, is that right?”

“Yes sir.” Silverman tugs on his left cuff.

“And you requested that.”

Silverman nods.

“Why?”

Silverman’s quiet a moment before blurting out, “They’re as bad as murderers.”

“What?” Sean asks. That’s not what he expected.

“They’re as bad as murderers,” Silverman says again. “Rapists and molesters ruin their victims’ abilities to trust anyone, to function, to not live in terror. And they ruin families, too, especially when they’re part of the family. There’s just as much pain and misery over somebody being sexually assaulted as there is over them dying.” He adjusts his glasses again, his eyes flitting away.

“You don’t have any family, do you?” Sean asks. “You wouldn’t know about this firsthand.”

“I don’t have to have firsthand experience to understand how people are affected,” Silverman says. “I want to do what I can to stop it from happening to more people.”

“We have a question,” Queenan says. “How badly do you want to be a cop?”

Silverman looks at him a long minute.

“It’s an honest question. I’m not going to judge you, whatever you say.”

“I’ve wanted to be a cop since I was four years old and understood that cops stop bad people.”

“Yeah, that’s why you studied biology, right?” Sean asks. “Because it’s so applicable.”

“It interests me, and I just needed a degree before I attended the academy.” Silverman meets his eyes for just a second. “I’m a cop.”

Sean doesn’t know which of them he’s telling, but he means it. Queenan must see it, too, because he moves in to rope Silverman into their ring. And, like so many others, Silverman agrees, and he signs himself out of that transfer.


	13. Chapter 13

The drive from Boston to Middletown, New Jersey, is almost five hours in decent traffic. Sean heads straight home after he’s off work on Friday night and makes sure everything’s in his duffel, and then he calls Robert.

“We’re taking your car, right?”

“Yeah. I’ll be there soon.”

“I’m ready. See you.”

Robert hangs up, and Sean goes about locking all his windows, making sure his gun safe is secure and his weapon is in it, checking that his badge is secure in his wallet just in case. When Robert knocks, he’s more than ready to go.

“I haven’t eaten,” Sean says.

“Neither have I. We could just stop at a drive-thru.” Robert shrugs. “If you don’t mind eating in the car.”

“Fine by me.” Sean hauls him down for a quick kiss. “Want me to take the first shift?”

Robert smiles. “It’s going to be nice to not be the only one driving.”

Sean steps into the hall and locks his door. “I can imagine.” Driving ten hours alone in a weekend has to be a real bitch. “Just give me directions.”

“Get on the interstate and go south.”

Sean snorts. “I figured that much.” They head down the stairs together. “McDonald’s okay with you?”

“Yeah, sure. There’s probably going to be some traffic until nine or ten, given the weekend.”

“Yeah, I thought so. You got a motel room already?”

“I thought I told you, I’m sorry. We’re staying with Claudia and Nathan.”

Sean stops at the foot of the stairs, turning to face Robert. “I thought I was meeting everyone tomorrow.”

“If we drive slowly, it’ll be after midnight,” Robert offers, a slight smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

“I might do that.” Sean shakes his head. “Just the two of them tonight?”

“Yeah. Jenny stays with Mom and Dad over the summer, and Jamie should be asleep.” He frowns. “She might try to wake us up.”

“Early run.” Sean nods. “Got it.”

“I’ll go with you.”

Sean turns again, heading for Robert’s car. “Should be interesting. I don’t know how good I am with kids. My nieces loved me, but I was in college last time I saw them. Shit changes.”

“Jamie’s great. You’ll love her.” Robert unlocks the car and hands Sean the keys, and Sean tosses his duffel in the back. “The captain knows you’ll be out of town?”

“He wanted us to join his family tomorrow. I told him we’re going.” Sean slides into the driver’s seat and adjusts it. A lot. “Fucking seriously, tonight?”

“Sorry,” Robert repeats. “I’m used to staying with my family, and I thought the four-year-old was better than my parents or an infant.”

“I’ll give you points there,” Sean agrees. “It’d suck to get woken up in the middle of the night by a crying baby. The bed’s not a twin, is it?”

“No, it’s a queen.”

That’s the size of Sean’s bed, and he knows they fit there. He nods and starts the car, pulling away from the curb.

They pass the drive with Robert giving Sean a crash course in his family, then occasional conversation and Robert fiddling with the radio whenever they lose a station. They take a break and swap seats in Waterbury, and Robert gets them the rest of the way to his sister’s house in just over two hours, a little before midnight.

The house has two stories and a manicured lawn. It doesn’t look treasured like the Queenan house, but it does look cared for, and it’s bigger. A man answers Robert’s knock. He’s medium height and slim-built, blond and blue-eyed, and he smiles at them. “Robert, come in.”

“Nathan, this is Sean. Sean, Nathan.”

“It’s nice to meet you, Sean.” Nathan holds out his hand, and Sean shakes firmly.

“You too.”

“Is Claudia awake?” Robert asks.

“She’s getting a snack.”

“I’m coming,” a woman’s voice calls.

“Robert likes to talk about you,” Nathan says, and Robert gives him a look. Sean smirks.

“I knew you liked me,” he says to Robert.

“I’d hope so. I thought I’d made it clear.”

A woman who has to be Claudia comes into the parlor from what must be the kitchen. She’s carrying a box of crackers and a gold can of Coke; Sean’s pretty sure that means decaf. She looks like Robert, same green eyes and soft mouth, but her hair is auburn and her skin’s a little lighter, and she’s probably about an inch shorter than Sean. She’s visibly pregnant, but Sean can’t possibly guess how far. “Robert.” She puts her snack down on an end table and comes to hug her brother. He hugs her back, smiling.

“You weren’t showing much last time I saw you.”

“It happens over time,” she points out. She lets him go and turns to Sean. “Sean, it’s so good to meet you.” And then she hugs him. Much to his surprise, he automatically returns it.

“It’s nice to meet you, too.”

She lets him go and glances between them. “You must be exhausted. I am, and I haven’t even been driving.”

“You’re having twins, you’re supposed to be exhausted,” Robert tells her. “But I am tired.”

“I’m getting there,” Sean agrees.

“Nathan has to write, apparently,” Claudia says.

“I have a deadline coming up,” he puts in.

“But I’m going up to bed. Robert, you know where the guest room is. The bathroom is just down the hall from it, Sean. Jamie might try to jump on you in the morning, since she knows her uncle is supposed to be here. She knows about you, too, so you won’t surprise her.”

“I’m sorry if she does,” Nathan says. “She just gets excited.”

Sean shrugs. “She’s a little kid. Excited is good.”

“Come on,” Robert says to him. “I could use some sleep.”

Sean follows him up the stairs, glancing back just in time to see Claudia kiss Nathan and pick her snack back up. “When is she due?”

“Early September,” Robert says. “She’s bigger than with Jamie at this point, but like I said, twins. Which I don’t think she’s exactly looking forward to, but she’s also not upset, so it’s fine. I can’t imagine having twins.”

“You want kids?” This isn’t something they’ve talked about before. They haven’t had a reason to.

Robert pushes open the door to a room and switches on the light. “I’d like to have two or three someday, hopefully starting in the next few years so I’m not an old dad. What about you?”

“I haven’t thought about it a lot,” Sean says with a shrug. He drops his bag on the foot of the bed and unzips it. “I’ve never been in a position to, or really around kids. When I was a teenager, I kind of wanted a kid someday, way in the future. Lately, though? Too much else on my mind.” He rummages for his shaving bag and pulls it out. “I’m going to brush my teeth.”

Once he’s done with everything, Robert takes a turn, and Sean considers before he undresses. Since there’s a four-year-old who might come in…

He leaves his boxers on and sets the alarm next to the bed before getting under the blankets. When Robert comes back, he strips to his boxers too before flipping off the lights and crawling in beside Sean.

“I’d want to have kids with someone, not alone,” Sean says after a moment of listening to Robert’s quiet breathing. “If I had them.”

“That was always my plan,” Robert agrees.

“Adopt or have a surrogate?” Sean asks. He’s never considered the logistics for Robert to have kids.

“My sisters all said they’d be surrogates, depending on how many kids they already have. Or my partner and I could go through an agency. I know it’s selfish, but I’d prefer to have a kid who’s related to me or my partner.”

Nice careful phrasing on Robert’s part. Even so, Sean catches himself thinking about if _he_ becomes that partner, even though it’s only two months into their relationship. They haven’t even talked about living together. “That makes sense to me,” he says after a moment. “Besides, it seems like adoption would be hard if you’re single or gay.”

“I know some who have been able to, but not a lot. The ones who didn’t go through with adoption might have chosen not to, though, because it’s difficult when you’re gay and it’s always hard to adopt babies. Everybody wants them instead of older kids.” He shifts closer to Sean, enough so they’re touching. “Which I’m sympathetic to. Just wait until we see Savanna. I won’t put her down tomorrow.”

Sean smirks. “Even when she needs to be changed?”

“Part of the job with babies. I’ll do it.”

“You’d be a dedicated dad,” he comments, “if you’re good with diaper changes.”

“Better believe it.” Robert sighs. “I want to have sex.”

“I’m not fucking in your sister’s house.”

“Neither am I, but I still want to.”

“Stay over Sunday,” Sean suggests. “After two nights of just sleeping, we’ll both need it.” He rolls onto his side and throws his leg over Robert’s. “I set the alarm for six.”

“I’ll come with you.” Robert wraps his arms around him. “It’s a lot more fun to run with someone, anyway.”

“Yeah.” He kisses Robert’s shoulder. “Shut up and go to sleep.”

Robert snorts and tilts his head down enough to kiss him properly. “Good night, Sean.”

“Yeah, good night.” Sean pulls his pillow more under his head and settles into the bed.

Fortunately, Sean wakes up to the beep of the alarm, not to a four-year-old jumping on him. He rolls away from Robert to hit the off button and sits up, swearing under his breath at the hour. On a Saturday, too. Robert mumbles and rolls onto his back.

“Time s’it?”

“Six.” Sean swings his legs over the edge of the bed and forces himself to get up. “You can go back to sleep.”

“No, I said I’d come.” Robert yawns hugely, which makes Sean yawn, and sits up.

Sean rummages in a bag for a good three minutes before he realizes it’s Robert’s bag and that’s why the clothes don’t look like the ones he packed. He snorts at himself and switches to the other, pulling out his beat-up running shoes, shorts, and t-shirt. He’ll shower and change when they get back. “C’mon,” he mutters, and dresses, almost pulling on his shoes before getting socks, which is just begging for blisters.

Robert drags himself out of bed and finds his own clothes. “Kiss me, it’ll wake me up.”

“It’ll wake part of you up, anyway.” Sean kisses him anyway, close-mouthed to avoid morning breath. “Better?”

“Much.” Robert dresses fast and opens the door. “Come on, we’ll beat Jamie.”

Sean smirks and follows him down the stairs. Robert disables the alarm and resets it once they have the door open and are sure it’s going to stay unlocked.

“You know your way around here, right?”

“I grew up here. Come on.”

They don’t talk a lot, both focusing more on stretching and then running, and pausing to stretch again about halfway through. Robert takes a convoluted trail through the neighborhoods, and Sean draws a mental map as they go, just in case they don’t have a way back. But they do; they get back after about forty-five minutes, once they’ve worked up a good sweat and gone for about six decently-paced miles.

“Now I’m awake,” Sean says when they get back to Claudia’s house. He stretches his arms up over his head, feeling his back pull pleasantly.

“Me too.” Robert begins stretching his legs. “Nathan and Jamie are probably up. Claudia might be, but she says she’s sleeping more lately.”

Sean shrugs. “She’ll be up later, right? Dibs on the shower,” he adds.

“Damn it.” Robert smirks. “We could always share.”

Sean laughs. “What would your sister think?”

“She’d say good for me.”

“Okay, fine, what would your niece think?”

Robert pauses. “I don’t know.”

“Thought so. So I get it first.” Finished stretching, they start up the walkway. “So you guys have a barbecue today, right?”

“Right. I’m supposed to make something to bring, I think I said fruit salad, so I have to go shopping after I shower. Do you want to come, or play with Jamie?”

Sean shrugs. “I’ll stay if she likes me. And if it’s okay with Nathan and Claudia.”

“Claudia likes you. It’s fine.” Robert opens the door, and before he’s had a chance to get to the alarm, he’s rushed by a strawberry blonde little girl wearing khaki shorts and a vividly purple t-shirt.

“Uncle Robert!” she crows. “You’re here!”

He swings her up, kissing her forehead, and keys in the alarm code. “Hi, sweetheart. We got here last night.”

Jamie peeks over Robert’s shoulder at Sean, and he smiles at her. “Hi, Jamie. I’m Sean.”

“I know. Mommy said you’re coming. You’re Uncle Robert’s boyfriend.”

There’s that word again. Close enough, he guesses. “Yeah, that’s right. I’ll be back down in about fifteen,” he adds to Robert.

“Will you play with me?” Jamie asks. Sean catches Robert’s laugh.

“Sure, if you let me eat breakfast first.”

“Okay. We have Froot Loops!”

Sean smiles at her. “I’ll leave those for you.” He heads up the stairs, pausing in the guest room just long enough to get his clean clothes and shaving kit before going to shower.

When he gets downstairs and heads into the kitchen, Jamie pops up from around the corner into the parlor. “What do I call you?” she asks, reasonably to his mind.

“You can call me Sean.”

She purses her lips in a way she must have learned from the adults around her. “But I’m not s’posed to call grownups their first names only. You’re Uncle Robert’s boyfriend. I could call you Uncle Sean.”

It’s a good thing he hasn’t even poured coffee yet. There’s nothing to choke and cough on. “I don’t think we’re ready for that yet.”

“Jamie,” Nathan says as he comes down the stairs, “what are you doing?”

“I wanna know what to call him. I said Uncle Sean, but he said him and Uncle Robert aren’t ready. What do you mean?” she adds to Sean.

“We haven’t been together long enough.” To Nathan, Sean says, “She won’t just call me Sean.”

“What do you think about Mr. Sean?” Nathan asks them both.

“How about Detective?” Sean offers to Jamie. “I’m a police officer. A Massachusetts State Police detective.”

Her eyes round. “ _Really_? I bet you’re _best_ at cops an’ robbers.”

“I am in real life. I could play with you after I eat.”

She nods decisively. “Okay, Detective!”

“Problem solved,” Nathan says with a laugh. “I was going to make pancakes. Did you want coffee?”

“Yeah. Mugs are…?”

“By the fridge. Help yourself to whatever you want. Claudia should be down soon.”

“So should Robert. He’s in the shower.” Sean turns and finds a mug. “He said you’re a technical writer. What’s that like?”

“Interesting only to me. It pays pretty well, which is the only positive Claudia sees, but I like it.” Nathan rummages in a cabinet for a moment before reappearing with pancake mix. “Which unit do you work in?”

“Undercover,” Sean says, and they get into a discussion about their jobs while Nathan mixes up the pancakes and fries them, and Sean finds syrup to heat and pulls out butter and jam in case anyone wants them. Robert joins them a couple of minutes into the conversation.

“I want Froot Loops!” Jamie announces when everything is on the table.

“You’re sure you don’t want pancakes?” Nathan asks.

She shakes her head emphatically. “I like Toucan Sam.”

“Okay, go tell Mommy breakfast is ready, and I’ll get those for you.”

“She’s a sweet kid,” Sean says when she’s upstairs.

“She’s great. I hope she loves the babies.” Nathan shrugs. “She’s used to being an only child.”

“She’ll be fine,” Robert says. “I was when Claudia was born.”

“I hope you’re right.”

Robert takes off after they eat, and Jamie grabs Sean’s hand, pulling him into the backyard. “Play tag with me!”

“Hey, aren’t you supposed to ask?”

She heaves a sigh. “ _Please_ play tag with me?”

“Okay. Not it.”

“You don’t gotta hide,” she says. “Just… run!” She darts for him, and he starts to run—slowly, so she won’t give up, but enough to make it difficult.

He pretends to trip after a few minutes, and she jumps on him, squealing, “You’re it, you’re it, you gotta chase me!”

Sean laughs and tickles her, and she giggles, worming away. “Okay, I’m it. Go, I’ll get you soon.”

“But don’t run too fast. You’re a lot bigger than me.” She runs away then, calling, “Come get me, Detective!”

So Sean does, chasing her and being chased until she flops down on the ground, declaring, “I’m _’sausted_.”

He laughs and sits beside her. He hasn’t even worked up a sweat, but his breathing is a little harder. “Let’s go inside then.”

Jamie pushes herself to her elbows. “Are you coming to meet Nana an’ Grampa an’ Aunt Stacy an’ Uncle Ted an’ Savanna an’ Aunt Jenny?”

“Yeah, and for fireworks. That’s why we came here.”

“Good.” She sits up fully and crosses her legs, turning to him. “Are you gonna marry Uncle Robert?”

“Men can’t marry each other,” Sean says after a moment.

“That’s not fair.”

“It’s not,” Sean agrees. “And I’ve only been dating your uncle for about two months. It usually takes a lot longer than that to decide to get married.”

“But do you wanna?” she presses.

“I have no idea. It hasn’t been long enough.”

“I think you should,” she proclaims. “You like each other lots.” With the interminable energy of children, she jumps to her feet. “Mommy’s making a cake, an’ Uncle Robert’s making fruit salad. Let’s go help.”

Sean grins and gets up, tousling her hair, and she beams up at him. “You’re a good kid, Jamie.”

“I like you, Detective. You should come _all_ the time with Uncle Robert.”

“We’ll see about that. Maybe.” He opens the glass door, and she bounds inside.

“I wanna help make the cake!” she proclaims to everyone, and Claudia, just taking juice from the fridge, laughs.

“You can help stir when I make it. Thanks for playing with her,” she adds to Sean.

“I had fun. I think she has grass stains on her knees, though.”

“She’s washable.”

“Detective’s a good tagger,” Jamie tells Claudia. “I said he should come always with Uncle Robert.”

Robert, who’s cutting up a pineapple, smirks at Sean. Sean smirks back, and Claudia must see, because she rolls her eyes but smiles.

“He’s welcome here. Now wash your hands. I know you, and I know they’re all dirty from the grass.”

Jamie sighs dramatically, but wanders off to the bathroom. Sean washes his own hands at the kitchen sink and turns to Robert. “Want help?”

“Mind washing the grapes and strawberries?”

When Claudia decorates the cake with Jamie’s help, it ends up looking like a flag, cream cheese frosting with blueberries in a rectangle in one corner and raspberries in stripes that alternate with the frosting. She covers it with foil and tells Jamie, “Go get a clean shirt and jeans. We’re going over to Nana and Grandpa’s. Everyone’s going to be there.”

Jamie claps her hands together and climbs off her stool. “Savanna too?”

“Yes, Savanna too, and Aunt Stacy will probably let you hold her if you’re sitting down and you’re very careful.”

“If you can get her away from me,” Robert says. He’s on the other side of the island, and Sean’s standing nearby, his hand wrapped around a glass of cold water. He’s fast learning that kitchens are social places for the Messer family. That’s new for him. “I don’t ever get to see her.”

“Nuh-uh, you saw her at Easter an’ when she was born!”

“Okay, I almost never do, better?”

Jamie narrows her eyes. “I _guess_.”

“Change, Jamie,” Claudia says again.

“I’ll help you find clothes,” Nathan says. “Come on, kiddo.”

After Jamie is out of the kitchen, Claudia asks, “Looking forward to meeting everyone?”

“I’m using Jamie as a shield,” Sean tells her. “She’ll distract them.”

Robert snorts. “Good luck.”

“Jenny’s predisposed to like you,” Claudia says. “Robert spoiled her when we were kids. She was always the one with the most in her Easter basket and during egg hunts, even when she was two. He bought her a rabbit for her seventh birthday…”

“I think I resent the past tense,” Robert says.

Claudia laughs. “Oh, of course, your continuing habit.”

“She was my first experience with a baby who wasn’t completely ruining my life,” Robert says solemnly. “She’s entitled.”

“ _Thank_ you, big brother.”

“You’re welcome.” He looks at Sean. “They’ll all like you. They’ve been looking forward to meeting you.”

“How much do you talk about me?”

“How much do you talk about me to your captain?” Robert counters.

“When he asks, mostly.” Sean doesn’t add that that’s generally whenever he’s in a good mood and Queenan picks up on it.

“Mom likes to take pictures,” Claudia says. Either she’s playing diplomat or ignoring them, Sean can’t tell. “You’ll be entering family history.”

“That’s no pressure at all,” Sean mutters. He’s been more comfortable recording conversations with Costello than meeting Queenan’s family and now Robert’s.

“It’s fine,” Claudia says. “Robert likes you, I like you, Nathan likes you, Jamie adores you, everyone’s going to like you.”

Sean grins. “Jamie’s a kid. She can’t help her taste.”

Jamie and Nathan come down the stairs then, and they leave just a moment later. They take two cars, in case Jamie needs to be brought home early, and in their car, Robert says, “Claudia’s right. My parents are going to like you, and so are our sisters.”

“What did you say your parents do?”

“Mom’s a pediatrician. Dad’s an elementary school teacher.”

“She disappointed that none of you went into medical fields?”

“I think Claudia’s close enough,” Robert says with a laugh. “Being a pediatrician makes her happy. Med school wouldn’t have made _any_ of us happy.”

“It’s, what, four years of never-ending studying and no sleep?” Sean smirks. “What’s to be unhappy about?”

“I do imagine the no sleep part might be like being undercover,” Robert says, glancing at him sideways.

Sean thinks a minute. “The sleep I got wasn’t exactly restful. All I have to say on the matter.”

“Yeah, okay.” Robert makes a turn and slows the car as they come to a red. “The house is only another couple of blocks. If you change your mind before then…”

“I’m not changing my mind,” Sean says, a little more sharply than he means. “It’ll be fine. You keep saying they’ll like me, and I’ll probably like them.”

“I hope you will.”

“Jenny especially, right?”

Robert grins. “Not liking Jenny might be a deal-breaker.”

Sean snorts. “I’ll make a fucking effort.”

Robert laughs, and just a moment later, they’re pulling up to the curb of a large house. Two stories and long, with an immaculate yard and two-car garage. “My parents’ house,” he says as they get out. Claudia and Nathan’s car pulls up right behind theirs. “It doesn’t look like Stacy and Ted are here yet.”

“So no baby yet?” Sean asks with a smirk.

“I saw you with Jamie. Don’t pretend you weren’t having fun.”

“She tried to call me ‘Uncle’, you know.”

They head up the front walk, and before Robert can answer, Jamie’s on them, pushing her way between to grab one of each of their hands. “Nana an’ Grampa have the _best_ house,” she tells Sean. “But they don’t have a pool. My friend Anna’s house has a pool. I went swimming there yesterday!”

“Have fun?” Sean asks.

“ _Lots_. It was _so_ hot, an’ the pool helped lots.”

“I’m glad.”

Jamie drops their hands just before they get to the door and races ahead so she can ring the doorbell. The woman who answers the door is probably a little shorter than Claudia and looks like she’s in her early sixties, judging by the laugh lines around her eyes and mouth and her grey hair. Claudia and Robert must get their skin tone and their green eyes from her; hers eyes are brighter, and they sparkle. “Jamie, my sweetheart.”

“Nana! Uncle Robert brung his boyfriend! His name’s Sean, but he says I can call him Detective!”

“Brought, sweetheart.” The woman stoops to kiss Jamie’s cheek. “Grandpa is out back. Why don’t you go find him?” Once Jamie zooms past her, Robert’s mother turns to them. “Robert, come here.”

“Hi, Mom.” Robert hugs her, and she kisses his cheek.

“I know Jamie made her introductions, but why don’t you take a turn?”

Robert lets her go. “Mom, this is Sean. Sean, my mom, Alejandra.”

“It’s great to meet you.” Sean offers his hand, and she shakes; she has a surprisingly firm grip.

“And you. Robert has said so much about you. Call me Alejandra. All my children’s boyfriends I like are allowed to.”

Sean grins. “Thank you.”

“Come in, you two, you’re blocking my daughter.” Alejandra shoos them in, and they walk into the parlor.

“Ready to meet Dad?” Robert asks.

“Are you sure I need to? Jamie’s probably already told him all about me.”

Robert laughs. “She is enthusiastic.”

“So your mom likes me already.”

“I haven’t exactly been silent on the subject of Sean Dignam. She’s had plenty to go on, and she can always tell when I’m happy.”

Sean blinks. “I make you happy?”

“Yeah, you do.”

After a moment, Sean says, “Queenan asks about you whenever I’m in a good mood.”

Robert grins and kisses him hard.

“Ewwwwww,” a woman’s voice says.

Robert breaks the kiss only long enough to say, “Shut up, Jenny.”

“Aw, come on. I get to make fun of my big brother.”

“I said shut _up_ , Jenny.” Robert kisses Sean again and then says, “You might as well meet her, the brat.”

Sean turns to see a brunette, eight or nine years younger than him and probably about her mother’s height, standing a few feet away. She doesn’t have her siblings’ green eyes; hers are blue instead, and they’re full of laughter. “Hi,” he says.

“Hi, Sean. I’m Jenny. And don’t worry, I’m only ewww-ing at my big brother having smooch time.”

“I should have smothered you when you were born,” Robert says, but affection is clear in his voice.

“Pft, everyone says you loved me from the start.” To Sean, she says, “I’m stealing you from him later to make sure you’re good enough for my big brother.”

“She’s going to tell you everything she remembers from my twenties,” Robert translates.

“I can’t turn down that offer,” Sean says. “You’re going to be a teacher, right?”

“That’s the plan. It’s a couple of years away, though. What’s being a detective like?” She closes the distance between them and grabs Sean by the crook of the arm. “Go away,” she adds to Robert, “we’re talking now.”

“You said later.”

“That was earlier. Now it’s later.” She tugs on Sean’s arm. “Have you met Dad?”

“No.”

“He’s out back, and he’ll give you a beer. Don’t worry, Detective, in New Jersey it is perfectly legal for someone under twenty-one to drink on private property under adult supervision. Also, I hate beer.”

“I wasn’t going to ask. No jurisdiction.” He shoots Robert a look, and Robert just shrugs, obviously no help. Sean flips him off over his shoulder. “I still have to meet Stacy, too.”

“And Ted,” Jenny says, nodding, “not to mention the cutest current baby. You’ll know when they’re here, though. Jamie has a sixth sense for Savanna. So, tell me about yourself.”

Eventually, Sean’s rescued from Jenny; they get outside, and the Messer patriarch turns toward the sound of the back door closing. He looks more weathered than Alejandra, maybe a few years older than her. Jenny gets her blue eyes from him. “Jenny,” he sighs, “did you kidnap the poor man?”

She looks offended by the implication. “I stole him, Dad, I didn’t kidnap him.”

“I believe stealing a person means you kidnapped them.”

“I’m going to have to side with him,” Sean says. “Speaking as a cop.”

“Fine, ruin my fun.” Jenny flounces to another deck chair. “Dad, Sean, Sean, Dad.”

“Call me Carl,” Jenny’s father says. “Have a seat, Sean.” He opens the red cooler beside him. “Beer?”

“Please.”

Carl hands him a beer and a bottle opener. “Jamie keeps talking about you.”

Sean sits by him. “She’s a good kid.” At the moment, she’s riding a tricycle across an expanse of lawn.

“She says you said she could call you ‘Detective’?”

Sean shrugs. “The alternatives were ‘Uncle Sean’ and ‘Mr. Sean’. First was a little sudden, second felt too formal, and kids love the cop thing.”

“Adults love the cop thing,” Jenny puts in.

“Jamie seems happy with it. Where’s Robert?”

Sean lifts a shoulder. “We left him in the parlor.”

“Probably the kitchen by now,” Carl says, nodding. He adjusts his hat. “Allie’s going to ask me to come help any second. I’m taking advantage of this while I can.”

Sean sips his beer. It’s a brand he hasn’t tried before, Yuengling, and it’s good. “How long have you been married?”

“Forty years, since right before Allie started med school. You and Robert have been together two months now, isn’t it?”

“About that, yeah.”

“That’s a start. Why aren’t you spending today with your family?”

“We’re not close. Robert invited me down here, which turned out to be a good thing because my captain invited us to his house.”

Carl nods, looking meditative. “What’s it like being a detective?”

“Frustrating. I’m taking the sergeants’ exam in September.”

“Which division do you work in?”

“Undercover.”

“I imagine you can’t tell me much about that.”

Sean grins. “You imagine correctly.”

“I’m a third grade teacher. It’s absolutely nothing like your job and probably just as rewarding. You like what you do?”

“I can’t imagine doing anything else.”

Carl smiles. “That’s what I like hearing.”

The back door slides open, and Robert says, “Dad, Mom wants you in the kitchen. Sean, want to meet Stacy and Ted?”

Sean twists. Robert’s holding a baby on his hip. She’s tiny and dressed in pink and green, her hair copper wisps against her head. “Yeah, sure.” He gets up, and so does Carl.

“I’ll stay with Jamie,” Jenny says. “She’ll wear herself out, nap before the fireworks.”

“We can only hope,” Carl says, and then he passes Robert into the house.

“Isn’t she the cutest baby you’ve ever seen?” Robert asks when Sean stops in front of him.

Sean lifts Savanna’s tiny hat, and she regards him with clear brown eyes. “She’s pretty cute,” he allows.

“Don’t listen to him, Savanna. You’re the cutest.” Robert beams at her and turns into the house, and Sean follows.

“You’re going to have to put her down eventually,” a heavyset woman with fiery red hair says when they get to the kitchen. She has to be Stacy. “She’s already scooting. She’ll never learn to crawl if she’s always held.”

“One day won’t hold her back,” Robert says. “I never get to see her.”

“One,” Stacy agrees. “But that means you have to put her down tomorrow.”

“Damn, should have said ‘weekend’. Stacy, Ted, this is Sean. Sean, Stacy and Ted.”

Stacy gives Sean a brilliant smile. “It’s nice to meet you, Sean. I’d shake your hand, but…” She gestures to the bowl of raw hamburger in front of her that she’s working with her hands.

“You too.”

The man who must be Ted is sitting at the kitchen table with a beer. He’s dark-haired, built a lot like Sean. “Hi, Sean,” he says with a nod.

Sean nods back. “Hi. Can I help with anything?” he adds to the room in general.

“Would you mind making a salad?” Alejandra asks. “Everything is in the refrigerator. Just a greens salad, nothing fancy.”

Sean nods and turns to the refrigerator, faced to match the cabinets, and pulls things out before washing his hands and getting started.

By the time everything in the kitchen is done, Jenny and Carl are manning the grill, and Ted has hauled out a cooler of non-alcoholic drinks. Alejandra sits at the kitchen table, a beer in front of her, and Robert is giving Savanna a bottle. Sean sits beside Robert, watching him covertly.

“You’re a pediatrician, Alejandra?”

She nods. “I have been for thirty-five years, since just after Robert was born.” She pats her son’s hand.

“What’s it like, raising a family while you worked?”

She gives him a shrewd look. “Not always easy, but very much worth it. I love my children more than anything, but I love my job, too.”

Sean nods and gets up to throw out his beer bottle.

After the barbecue, Jamie is sent for a nap upstairs, and she only barely protests. Savanna takes one too, which means Robert’s hands are baby-free for once, and Sean presses a beer on him. The adults sit around the backyard, and Sean has the fun of being the subject of Robert’s sisters’ scrutiny—which apparently amuses their parents, since they don’t participate much and don’t save him at all.

“How safe is your job?” Stacy finally asks.

Sean pauses. “Safer than when I was undercover.”

“And a firefighter’s job is safer when he’s not trapped in a burning building, but that doesn’t make it safe,” she shoots back.

He shrugs. “I’m a cop. It’s never going to be entirely safe unless I never leave the building. But I love it, I wear a vest whenever I’m doing anything particularly dangerous, and I’m good. It’s as safe as I can make it.”

She nods, apparently satisfied, and sits back.

There are more questions, three or four, and then the back door opens and Jamie says, “I’m awake! Can we play?”

Claudia gets up, murmuring an excuse, and Sean turns to Robert to give him a look. Robert laughs.

“I can’t stop them when they’re determined.”

“Uh-huh.”

They watch fireworks from the Messer parents’ backyard. Sean feels Robert’s hand on his near the end, a quick touch and then a squeeze, and he glances over to smile, squeezing back. Robert smiles too, and they both look back up at the light bursting in the sky.

Sunday is a lot like Saturday, except with less of an inquisition and no fireworks. They spend it at the Messer parents’ house with the rest of Robert’s family, until they have to make their excuses at about seven.

“It’s time for Jamie to go to bed anyway,” Nathan says, and Jamie makes a face at him. Sean stifles a laugh. “We’ll let you in so you can get your stuff.”

“I don’t want you to go,” Jamie whines. “Uncle Robert, you never stay very long!”

“Well, I live far away,” Robert says. “And I have a job where I live. I have to be there tomorrow morning.”

Jamie pouts at him and turns to Sean. “What about _you_ , Detective?”

“Same thing,” he says. “The bad guys won’t catch themselves.”

That, at least, gets a giggle out of her. “Catch themselves.”

There are hugs all around before they go, even from Carl, which surprises Sean. Still, he hugs back.

An hour later, they’re on the road. Robert has the wheel, and he says, “Your house, right?”

“Fuck yeah.”

Almost as soon as they get in Sean’s apartment, Robert shoves his hand down the front of Sean’s pants, grabbing him through his boxers. Sean laughs, pressing his hips toward Robert’s hand. “Eager.”

“I’ve slept next to you for two nights without having sex, and we only see each other a couple of nights a week. Of course I’m eager.”

That’s a valid point. Sean unfastens Robert’s jeans and yanks them down, which might be a mistake because he’s not even out of his shoes, and then pushes up his shirt. He obliges, pulling it off, and takes his hand away so he can finish undressing. Sean likes the sight of Robert in absolutely nothing a hell of a lot. Robert apparently reciprocates, because he strips Sean fast. It’s nearly a race to the bedroom, and when they land, Sean on top, he rolls his hips against Robert’s. Robert gasps and grabs Sean’s ass, mimicking his move, and they fuck that way, rubbing off against each other on top of the blankets.

At least they manage to clean up and crawl under the blankets to sleep together in a heap.


	14. Chapter 14

Easley beats Sean to Queenan’s office on Tuesday morning, sitting in the chair outside the captain’s door. He smiles tightly at Sean, who nods back and knocks perfunctorily before sticking his head in.

“You know Easley’s outside?”

“Good morning to you too, Sean. Close the door.”

Sean does. “He’s getting his transfer today?”

“He is,” Queenan agrees. “He had grand jury testimony yesterday, and I’ve met with the White Collar captain.” He glances at his watch. “He’s early.”

“Good for him.”

“Let him in,” Queenan says, “and play nice.”

Sean rolls his eyes to himself once he’s turned to open the door. “Come on.”

Easley stands and straightens his jacket, following Sean into the office. “Captain, Detective.”

“Detective,” Queenan says. “Have a seat.” Easley does, his back ramrod straight. “How did your testimony go?”

“I think well, sir. Connelly seemed confident.”

“Good. He should be.” Queenan tips his glasses down and glances at a form. “We have your assignment, now that you’re a regular detective again.”

“Where am I going?” Good, he isn’t assuming he gets to stay with Undercover.

“White Collar.” Queenan takes out a form and slides it across the desk. “We feel it’s where you’d fit best.”

“Given your talents,” Sean interjects.

Easley flicks his eyes at him. “Thank you, Detective.”

“Considering what you handled while you were undercover,” Queenan goes on, “you’re suited to the world of corporate crime. I’ve already spoken to the captain and have your transfer paperwork ready. You just need to sign.”

Easley nods curtly and stands. “Where do I sign?”

Queenan directs him to the places on the pages before taking it back. “Go on over to White Collar. I’ll make sure your orders are in the computer. Do you have your gun and badge?”

Easley pushes back his suit jacket to reveal a shoulder holster like the one Sean favors. “Yes sir.”

“Good. They have a desk ready for you.”

“Name plate and everything,” Sean mutters.

Easley ignores him. “Thank you, sir.”

“It was a pleasure working with you, Detective. We may pull you in for your input in other cases.”

Easley nods, then he turns and slips out the door.

Sean turns to Queenan. “That’s how it usually goes?”

A faint smile pulls at Queenan’s mouth. “What do you mean?”

“Generally speaking, the undercovers who stay in the force get a few weeks off, and then they get sent off to some other department after signing their transfer paperwork?”

“Generally speaking,” Queenan agrees. “Is there a problem with that?”

Sean grins. “No problem. I just fucking knew you liked me, Captain.”

“What’s not to like?” Queenan asks dryly. “You scare half the department, piss off all of them, antagonize my undercovers.”

“And I’m damn good at paperwork,” Sean supplies.

Queenan shakes his head and hands Sean the folder with Easley’s paperwork. “Use your gifts on that.”

Sean’s nearly smiling as he leaves Queenan’s office. That, of course, stops when he runs into Ellerby in the hall between the two. “Ellerby.”

“Dignam, you look like you got laid.”

“More than you have,” Sean agrees.

“The burden of marriage,” Ellerby murmurs. “Getting laid whenever I want.”

“Must be a problem on your end, then. I hear a doctor can help with that.” Sean steps past him and into his own office. One of the only things Ellerby’s good for is insults that would go to waste otherwise. He might be a sergeant with a clean record, but that doesn’t make him a cop.

Sean gets the paperwork entered, then sends the rest of it to one of the department secretaries to be filed. Within a couple of hours, Easley is out of undercover, is up for a couple of awards, and is a White Collar detective. Whoop de fucking do.

It occurs to Sean that he’s up for a couple of medals too, now that he’s testified. He should do something besides let them sit around getting dusty if he gets them. They’re just glitter, but they can be important glitter.

Once that’s all done, Sean goes back to Queenan’s office. Queenan looks drawn now, tight worry lines around his mouth and frown lines showing on his forehead.

“We’re going to Pittsfield. We’ll take your car. You can get reimbursed for the gas if you keep the receipts.” Queenan opens his drawer, pulling out his weapon and his wallet.

Sean blinks. “What’s going on?”

“Get your keys,” Queenan says, a non-answer.

Sean does as he’s told and walks down to the garage with Queenan. When they’re in his car, he asks again, “What’s going on?”

“There’s a body in the morgue in Pittsfield that fits the description of Hardison. I don’t know why she’d be in Pittsfield, but that doesn’t mean it can’t be her.”

Sean nods and starts the car. “It might not be her.”

“It might not, but she fits Hardison’s approximate height, weight, and age, as well as hair and eye color. I’ll see when we get there.”

For once, Sean doesn’t try to keep a conversation going. Queenan’s flipping through one of his small notepads, frowning at the pages, and it’s been awhile since Sean had a reason to go to Pittsfield, so he’s more focused on the drive than trying to draw Queenan out.

If it _is_ Hardison…

They get to the morgue just after one. Queenan flashes his badge and signs in, and after a questioning glance and a nod from Queenan, Sean does the same. An attendant calls them in after a moment and asks who they want to see.

“The Jane Doe, Caucasian, short brown hair, brown eyes. We’re attempting an ID,” Queenan says.

The attendant nods and pulls on a pair of latex gloves. He opens a drawer and lifts back the sheet. Queenan and Sean look for a long minute. The woman was pretty once, her hair cut in a blunt way that would frame her face if she was upright, her features well-formed. The cause of death isn’t obvious.

“That’s not her.”

Sean lets out a breath and nods. “Good.”

Queenan nods. “It is. Thank you,” he adds to the attendant, and the two of them turn to leave.

“Are you hungry?” Queenan asks once they’re back aboveground and outside.

“Yeah,” Sean says after a moment. “I could eat.”

They pick a dive, a greasy spoon that advertises its coffee and meatloaf, so Sean orders that. Queenan gets a BLT and says, “Don’t tell Elizabeth I’m eating this.”

Sean smirks. “Quit smoking, huh?”

“I’ll find an excuse to demote you if you tell her _that_ ,” Queenan threatens, and Sean laughs.

“You like me too much for that.”

“God help me, but I do,” Queenan agrees, and sips his coffee. Sean can see him fighting a smile. He almost smiles back and looks down at his plate to avoid it.

“This is their famous meatloaf?”

“The coffee lives up to it,” Queenan says with a shrug.

Sean tries a bite. It’s not the best he’s ever had—even his own is better—but it’s better than it looks, more flavor than just a slab of dark brown meat should have.

“On Saturday,” Queenan starts a few minutes later, and Sean glances at him. He’s halfway through his BLT.

“On Saturday,” Sean repeats. “What on Saturday?”

“Elizabeth wants you to come for supper. If you come early, we can watch the game.”

Sean sees the gleam in Queenan’s eyes. “There’s a catch, isn’t there?”

“You’re bringing Robert.”

He stares at Queenan. “You’re really set on meeting him.”

“I am.”

“Why?”

“I meet the girls Patrick dates,” he says, like that’s supposed to mean something, and then the brick hits Sean, square in the face.

“I should have known when your kid said something about you adopting me.”

“Patrick’s a smart boy,” Queenan agrees. “Besides, Elizabeth wants to meet Robert, and I don’t think even you have the willpower to deny her.”

Sean snorts. “It’s a good thing she doesn’t use her powers for evil.”

“The city would be doomed,” Queenan agrees, and picks up the other half of his BLT.

The drive back to Boston is much better. Sean doesn’t have to push for conversation, and they touch on their various undercovers; the eventual Van Kais trials and how far away that is; the fact that the Middlebrook and Williams case is closing soon; everything they’d usually discuss. There’s nothing weird, no silences, nothing like the drive to Pittsfield.

Besides, they’re going back to Boston. That automatically makes it better.


	15. Chapter 15

“Dignam,” Sean says when he picks up his desk phone. He’s not even paying attention; he has reports to catch up on.

“Detective, this is Abigail Soares.”

Sean tenses, just a little. “Ms. Soares, what is it?”

“I wanted you to know that the jury went out. I’m waiting on their verdict. I’m hopeful. I’ll let you know when they come back.”

Sean glances at his watch. Just after ten-thirty Thursday morning. “How long do you think it’s going to take?”

“I hope within the hour. I’ll make sure to call,” she reiterates.

“I’ll probably be in my office.” Between reports and now waiting for the verdict, he’s not leaving unless something happens with an undercover.

“It’s going to go our way, Detective.” She sounds almost gentle.

It makes his mouth twist. “Bye, Ms. Soares.” He hangs up and goes back to his reports, but has a hard time focusing now that he knows.

Fuck it.

He gets up and heads to the break room to get a cup of coffee, and then stops in Queenan’s office. He waits until Queenan glances up at him to say, “Jury’s out.”

Queenan sits back in his chair. “ADA Soares called you?”

Sean nods. “She’s hopeful.”

“She should be. Apparently, you gave solid testimony, very honest. You should be optimistic too.”

Sean laughs hollowly. “That’s me, all sunshine.”

“Try this time,” Queenan says, in the same voice he uses to persuade kids to go undercover. It works, damn him. “You brought down a pair of major dealers.”

Sean takes a slug of his coffee. It’s so strong it burns on its way down. “Not well enough. I didn’t get Costello.”

“There’s something odd with getting Costello. We had solid evidence on him and French, but we couldn’t touch them.”

“So why should I think these fuckers are going to be convicted?” Sean demands.

“Because they’re _not_ Costello or French. They’re touchable. You got them, Sean. No one else could.”

Sean smiles bitterly. “Not before they killed someone.”

Queenan studies him and nods. “That’s true. But you _got_ them. You were right about Middlebrook’s competency hearing, and you’ll be right about this. What does your gut say?”

“They’ll be convicted,” Sean says after a moment. “Or it’s heartburn from the coffee.”

Queenan gives him a ghost of a smile. “Distract yourself. She said she’d call when it’s done?”

“Yeah. I thought I’d stay here until then.”

Queenan nods. “I’ll get you lunch.”

“Thank you, Captain.” Sean turns to go back to his own office, where he buries himself in paperwork and coffee.

He has so much strong black coffee, in fact, that, by the time his phone rings again, his hand is nearly shaking from the caffeine overload, even though he had a grinder for lunch. “Dignam.”

“Detective, we got it.” Soares sounds like she’s beaming. “We got the conviction.”

Sean grins broadly at nothing more than his computer and paperwork. “Great news.”

“Sentencing is next week. I’m pushing for life for both of them. I’ll let you know.”

That’d be fucking nice. No matter how long the sentences are, though, they’re going away, partly because of him. “Thanks.”

“Be careful, Detective,” she says, her voice suddenly serious. “I don’t want to prosecute someone for murdering a cop.”

“I’ll keep my eyes open.”

“Goodbye, Detective. It’s been… it’s been something.”

He laughs a little. “It has.” He hangs up and knocks back the bottle of water on his desk. He _nailed them_.

He’s going out with Robert tonight, he decides, or at least getting laid. He earned it.

“Convicted,” he says when he lets himself into Queenan’s office a couple of minutes later.

Queenan smiles broadly. “Good. Now be careful. Costello won’t be too happy.”

“I know. I’ll stay armed.”

“Good. You’ll get those medals.”

“They come with a bonus?” Sean asks with a grin, and laughs when Queenan gives him an exasperated look.

He’s got to sound different when he calls Robert that night, because Robert asks, “What happened? Something good?”

“They got convicted.” Sean might be beaming. “You might hear it on the news. Andrew Middlebrook and Frederick Williams. Sentencing isn’t until next week, but they’re going away, partly on my testimony. You want to do something?”

“Drinks and back to your place?” Robert suggests.

“Want me to pick you up?”

“No, I’ll meet you in case you have an early morning. Does the Crossbar sound good to you?”

“Perfect. Okay, I’m leaving in a few minutes.” Sean pauses. “I’ll be armed. They keep telling me to be careful.”

“Thanks for the heads-up. Your shoulder holster is _hot_.”

Sean laughs. “Glad you think so. See you soon.” He hangs up and changes his pants and shoes, but keeps his blazer over his holster and makes certain his badge is in his wallet.

He beats Robert to the bar and orders them a round of beer. On a Thursday night, it’s not too crowded, and Sean’s able to claim a table for them. Robert joins him after a couple of minutes and doesn’t kiss him. Sean can’t decide if that’s a good thing or not, but he’s leaning toward not. “Congratulations,” he says, picking up his pint glass and clinking it against Sean’s. “On a job well done.”

Sean grins at him. “I’m just glad it’s done with.”

“I heard you on the phone. You’re glad they were convicted and you won.”

“That’s part of it being done with,” Sean says firmly. “I wouldn’t think it was finished if they got off or something.”

“You don’t have to worry about that,” Robert says, smiling. “Like you said, it’s done.”

“Queenan wants you to come with me to his house on Saturday. Mrs. Queenan wants to meet you. Are you up for it?”

“You met my family. It’s the least I can do,” Robert says with a nod.

“You keep saying that kind of thing like you’re meeting _my_ family.”

Robert gives him a look he can’t decipher and takes a long drink of his beer.

They don’t drink much, just a couple of beers apiece over an hour, and Robert follows Sean back to his place. As soon as the door is closed, Sean slams Robert against it and kisses him hard. Robert kisses him back just as viciously, enough that Sean vaguely wonders if he’ll have a mark on his lip. That doesn’t matter, though. What matters is getting his hand in Robert’s pants and closing it around his dick, tearing that sweet moan from him, stumbling together into the bedroom and stripping each other roughly. The only thing Sean actually thinks about is putting away his gun, and as soon as the safe is locked, Robert’s hands are on him again, shoving off the holster and fumbling to unbutton his shirt.

“I want to fuck you,” Sean mumbles against Robert’s mouth, and Robert nods, kissing him hard again. Sean pushes him onto the bed and pauses long enough to grab lube and condoms. He slicks his fingers and Robert spreads his legs, and Sean rolls one of the condoms on Robert to suck him while he fingers him.

Then Robert’s on his hands and knees, legs spread wide, and Sean’s putting on a condom. He uses plenty of lube and slides smoothly into Robert, reaching under him with his other hand to stroke him as his hips snap.

It’s a sweet eternity before Robert’s coming around him, muffling curses against the pillows, and Sean somehow keeps going through the feel of Robert tensing and trembling around him. He holds Robert’s hips with both hands and pounds into him, harder than before, and cries out when he comes.

His hands, sweat-slick, slide off Robert’s hips and up his sides, and he can feel Robert’s breathing, even if he can’t hear it over the roaring blood in his ears. He eases out of Robert, leaning forward to kiss his spine, and Robert sighs, stretching out.

“Fuck,” Sean breathes. “Just… _fuck_.”

“I’m not sure I can move,” Robert mumbles, and belies it by turning his head to face Sean when he slides to one side. “God, that was good. You should win more often.”

Sean laughs. “I do my fucking best.” It takes a moment to remember to get rid of the condom. “Goddamn, that was incredible. Did I hurt you?”

“No,” Robert assures him, and shifts enough to kiss him. “It was really fucking good.”

“Good.” Sean drapes an arm and a leg over Robert. “Be nice to be on the receiving end of that someday.”

“I will keep that in mind,” Robert promises, “but for now, I’m trying to decide if I can get up or not.”

Sean laughs and kisses his shoulder.

It turns out he can’t, not until the morning. Probably a good thing that he can by then, given it’s Thursday and they both need to work. Robert evidently can also move on Friday, since he shows up for their date and to fuck.

On Saturday, Robert is at Sean’s already, his change of shirt in the closet and the rest of his clothes in a duffel bag by the foot of the bed. They shower separately after they run, only a couple of miles but still something, and then each of them finds things to do until it’s time to leave for the Queenans’.

Patrick answers the door this time, a smile just like his mother’s in place. “Hi, Sean.”

“Hi, kid. This is Robert. Robert, this is Patrick.”

Patrick holds out his hand, his smile broadening. “Nice to meet you, Robert.”

“You too, Patrick.”

“Dad’s in the parlor,” the kid continues. “I think Mom’s out back.”

Sean holds up a six-pack. “I’ll stick these in the fridge.”

Patrick peers at the label. “I think Mom likes that.”

“Never would have pegged her for a beer-drinker,” Sean muses. Robert follows him to the kitchen, and when Sean glances at him, his expression is less than steady. “Relax, I met your family.”

“Your captain is, I repeat, a captain. A _police_ captain.” Robert manages to get force into an undertone. It’s impressive.

“I noticed that. Come on, he won’t bite.” He tugs Robert by the wrist after him into the parlor. Queenan has the game on, but he glances up at their entrance, then stands.

“You must be Robert.”

“It’s nice to meet you, sir.” They shake firmly. “Sean likes to talk about you.”

“I talk about Sean, so we’ll call it even. You like baseball?”

Robert smiles, and it reaches his eyes. “Love it.”

“You’re a Sox fan, I hope?”

“Of course. I can’t live in Boston and _not_ be a Sox fan.”

“Tell that to my wife. She doesn’t pay much attention to baseball. It’s all basketball with her. Come on, sit down.”

“We brought beer,” Sean says as they sit on the couch, nearly touching but not. “You think Mrs. Queenan is saying something with that basketball love, Captain?”

“Watch it, Sean. You’re my height.”

“I’m just saying, she might like Robert.”

Robert, for his part, looks like he’s trying to dissolve into the couch.

“I don’t think he’s quite tall enough if that’s why she watches,” Queenan says. “And it’s not why she watches, anyway.”

“Not why who watches what?” Patrick asks as he wanders into the room.

“Why your mom watches basketball.”

“She says it’s more athletic than baseball and less violent than football.” Patrick settles on the floor, legs crossed, in a way that only teenagers and children find comfortable.

“Then I guess you’re safe,” Sean says to Robert, who glares at him. Sean just smirks back.

“I would have been safe anyway,” he mutters, gesturing at Sean.

“Right, that. Guess you would have.”

“I’m getting a beer,” Queenan announces at the commercial. “Either of you want one?”

“Please,” Robert says, getting to his feet.

“No, you sit. I’ll get it.”

“One for me too,” Sean says.

“ _You_ come get your own.”

Sean gets up and follows Queenan. In the kitchen, Queenan says, “Robert seems quiet.”

“He’s not, usually. He’s nervous because he feels like he’s meeting my family.”

Queenan makes a noncommittal sound. “Elizabeth can draw him out.”

“She’s good at that, isn’t she?” Sean asks.

“She’s great. You know that. She’ll be in any moment.” Queenan pops the caps off two beers and hands Sean the bottle opener. He opens his own and tosses all three caps.

When they get back to the parlor, Patrick and Robert are involved in a discussion about the merits of NYU. Sean takes Robert’s beer from Queenan and, once he’s sat back down, hands it over. Robert gives him a nod of thanks, and his conversation with Patrick dies down as the game comes back on.

Sean spots Mrs. Queenan on the deck, and she waves at him, a small tub in her other hand. When she opens the door, she says, “Charlie, Patrick, you didn’t tell me our guests were here.”

“They’re here,” Patrick says, and he sounds like he’s smirking.

“Enough,” she says to him. “Robert, it’s wonderful to meet you! Sean seems to care about you so much, it feels like I’ve known you as long as I’ve known him.” Now Sean’s trying to hide in the couch. “Let me clean up and put the beans away, and then I’ll be right out to greet you properly.”

Robert takes a long swallow of his beer after she leaves and murmurs to Sean, “Now I know how you felt.”

Sean just nods and focuses on his beer and the game.

Mrs. Queenan comes back after a few minutes, during which Sean can hear running water, and holds out her hand. She has a beer in the other. “I’m Elizabeth. Sean insists on calling me Mrs. Queenan, though, so I’ll understand if you do too.”

“I probably will.” Robert smiles and shakes with her. “It’s nice to meet you. It’s obvious how much Sean likes you. Your house is beautiful.”

“Oh, thank you! It’s been our home so long. I love taking care of it. Do you mind if I sit by you?”

“Not at all.”

She does and starts a conversation about Robert’s job; apparently, she loves art and studied it in college. That’s the perfect conversation for him. Sean catches Queenan’s eye, and Queenan just smiles before tipping his bottle toward the TV.

Sean volunteers to help with supper after the game ends; Patrick’s assigned grill duty for the chicken Mrs. Queenan has prepared and marinating, and Sean follows her into the kitchen. She sets him to preparing the beans she picked earlier.

“I like him, Sean,” Mrs. Queenan says. “He’s a good man, and smart too.”

“I like him too.” He rinses the beans clean and gets started on snapping off the ends and peeling off the strings.

“You do your best not to lose him,” she says firmly. “It’s important for your family to like the person you choose, and Charlie and I both like Robert. I think Patrick does too.”

Sean keeps his eyes on the beans. “Family, huh?”

Her voice softens. “Of course, Sean. We’re your family as much as anyone could be. You might not be a Queenan, but we love you like you were.”

Sean clears his throat. “Thank you. Patrick feels like a kid brother, but…”

“But you weren’t sure about us.”

“Right.”

“You can be sure now. And once you’re done with the beans, you can make the biscuits.”

Sean smiles to himself. “Yes ma’am.”

“Sean Dignam, if you ma’am me one more time…”

Laughing, he holds up his hands. “I won’t.”

“Good. I was going to withhold cake, and I made it with you in mind.”

“I can’t miss that.”

“I’ll make you another when you pass the sergeants’ exam,” she adds. “Are you studying?”

“Whenever I have time. I did a lot of reading when I was undercover, though, so I think I’ll do well.”

“Charlie’s sure you’ll pass. I know you will.”

Patrick’s chicken is done about when the biscuits are, and Mrs. Queenan carves it after letting it rest for about ten minutes. “I don’t expect to have any leftovers with so many people here,” she informs the table, where Sean is seated across from Patrick and next to Robert, “so eat as much as you’d like.”

They take advantage of that.

Patrick and Robert end up cleaning up from supper, before dessert, which leaves Sean with the Queenans.

“Did I congratulate you properly on the conviction?” Mrs. Queenan asks.

“You made a cake. I think that more than counts,” Sean answers.

“Congratulations, dear. I’m proud of you.” She gets up to hug him gently.

“It’s the prosecutor who did it.”

“Soares wouldn’t have had a lot of the evidence without you,” Queenan counters. “Between your recordings and the warrants based on your information, we nailed them because of you.”

Sean shrugs. “Yeah, maybe.”

“No maybe about it,” Mrs. Queenan says. “Charlie doesn’t give false compliments.”

Queenan gives him a slight smile. “We do not deal in self-deception.”

Sean almost laughs. He’s heard it plenty before. “I know, Captain.”

Mrs. Queenan’s cake is a Black Forest masterpiece, expertly frosted and decorated with cherries and shaved chocolate. Sean can’t imagine the work she put into it. “This looks incredible.”

“Thank you, but it’s not for looking at.” She begins cutting generous slices of the cake, passing them around the table. “If anyone wants more, just ask.” Somehow, her slice and Queenan’s slice are smaller than the other three, and Sean catches his suspicious look. She doesn’t even acknowledge it.

After the plates are cleared away and the cake is in the refrigerator, Mrs. Queenan decides they’ll stay for a movie and puts on _The Last of the Mohicans_.

It’s not until the credits are rolling that Sean stands. “We should get going.”

“It’s getting late,” Queenan says. He stands. “Robert, it was nice meeting you.”

“Just lovely,” Mrs. Queenan agrees. She hugs Robert and then Sean. “You’ll come back soon.”

This family is excellent at non-questions. “Soon,” Sean agrees.

“See you,” Patrick adds, and Sean musses his hair on purpose.

“Bye, kid.”

Patrick glares at him, and Sean laughs.

“It was great meeting you all,” Robert says to the Queenans. “I’m looking forward to seeing you again.”

“Oh, you need to take more of the cake, Sean.” Before he can even begin to protest, she says, “It’s yours and you’ll take it, end of discussion.”

What the hell can he say to that? Sean gives Queenan and Robert helpless looks, and neither offers anything.

Mrs. Queenan reappears with a wrapped plate that has a huge wedge of cake. It’s at least half of what remained. “There. Now don’t worry about the plate. Just bring it back next time you’re over.”

“Tonight was great,” Sean says. “Bye, Mrs. Queenan, Captain, Patrick.”

He and Robert make their escape, heading for the car.

“They were nice,” Robert says. “Really. I think I love Mrs. Queenan.”

“Yeah, she’s great. Sort of terrifying with how you have to do what she says, though. I think she even scares the captain.”

“Even you?” Robert teases. “I thought nothing scared you.”

“She’s my weakness, apparently.” Sean pauses before they get in the car to kiss Robert. “Thanks for coming tonight.”

“I wanted to meet them.” Robert shrugs. “And it was a good night.”

Sean smiles slightly and unlocks the car. He hands Robert the cake, and Robert holds it in his lap as Sean starts the car to go home.


	16. Chapter 16

They’re on their way to a meeting with Brown, taking a convoluted route that should make it look coincidental that they’re running into her, when their walk is disrupted.

They’re passing by a church yard and see Gwen, of all people, playing with the children from the church daycare, and where Gwen is, Costello himself is sure to be close by. Especially when his girlfriend is wearing stockings and an ass-hugging skirt with a low-cut blouse, all probably chosen with him in mind, for some fucked-up reason Sean will never understand.

“Avoid him,” Queenan breathes, because they haven’t seen him yet but both know he can’t be far. Sean’s not stupid; he’s not going to go looking for a cold-blooded murderer with a hard-on for killing him.

Instead, they keep walking, and when they turn the corner of the church, Costello is lurking by the wall, along with French. Sean can’t figure out the relationship between those two. They seem like friends sometimes, brothers others, something else entirely at some moments. It’s hard to pin down, and that sends a growl of frustration through his chest. If they could figure it out, maybe they’d have an easier time pinning either of them.

“Frank,” Queenan says genially, probably because they can’t exactly pretend not to see him like they’re children on a playground, “I thought I’d never see you.”

“Charlie.” His eyes are bloodshot. Cocaine, Sean’s guessing. If the man couldn’t afford the purest shit, his nose would be rotting off with cancer. Sean would like that result. Those eyes fix on Sean, but he doesn’t exactly acknowledge him, just looks like he smells something vile. “I thought you were convinced of my innocence.”

“You haven’t been innocent since elementary school,” Queenan says. Sean’s keeping his mouth shut, because even he knows when it could end badly for him to do otherwise.

“Is that permanent record the pederast always talked about something that gets passed on?” Costello asks. “I thought that was, ah, an urban rumor.”

“It’s too bad I can’t arrest you for the things you did back then,” Queenan says. “That alone could get you put away for a very long time. Cherry bombs in the boys’ restrooms, Frank?”

Costello laughs, a sick sound that usually means someone’s going to die. “It made an unholy mess. Perfect for that unholy place. It’s just too bad I couldn’t get one into the principal’s office.”

“I know I asked if you were a cop,” French says to Sean, his voice that same slight rasp it’s always been.

“I know you did, too. You were emphatic about the question.” There’s a lump where Sean’s collarbone healed from it; he could have gotten French arrested for that, but that would have blown his cover, and that conviction wouldn’t be nearly enough to be worth it.

“Not a lot of people lie to me.”

“I’m not a lot of people.”

Costello turns to French. “Why are you wasting your breath on that walking prick?”

“You’re lucky I didn’t put you away, Frank,” Sean says, and regrets it the second it’s out of his mouth. Costello’s eyes narrow, taking on the hard look of a fighting dog, vicious and ready to snap.

“You’re barely worth stepping on,” he growls. “You couldn’t touch me.”

“Frances.” French touches his arm. “Gwen.”

Costello keeps staring for a moment before his shoulders relax. “Be seeing you, boys,” he says pleasantly, and he and French leave for the front of the church.

Queenan waits until they’re well away to hiss at Sean, “What the hell is the matter with you?”

“It slipped out, I’m sorry,” Sean says. “I’ll try to shut up next time. It was fucking stupid, I know.”

“I don’t need a dead cop, Sean, and I especially don’t need to explain you to Elizabeth or Patrick.” Queenan turns onto a trail that leads under the bridge. “Watch what you say to him, or you won’t be able to say anything. Hell, I’d have to explain your death to Robert, did you consider that?”

That shouldn’t make Sean’s chest freeze like it does. “Captain, I fucked up,” he says. “I know. It won’t happen again.”

“Are you staying armed every time you’re out?”

“I’m making doubly certain after _that_ ,” Sean assures him. “Believe me, Costello’s very low on my list of people it’s safe to piss off. French is even lower.”

Queenan shakes his head. “Antagonizing _Costello_ ,” he mutters to himself. “I’m glad you were better at keeping your mouth shut when you were undercover, or you _would_ be dead, Sean.”

“I had a much better developed sense of self-preservation,” Sean says dryly. “It’s wasted some since I’m not pumped with adrenaline every hour of every day.”

Queenan relaxes, ever so slightly. “I know how that is. But don’t do that again, and if you’re alone, keep your hand on your gun and walk away without saying a word. I don’t think he’d do anything—he’d know we’d know who did it—but be safe, Sean. Be smart.”

Then they can see Brown, down past some shrubs, and she ignores them entirely as she looks out over the water. They stop once they get there and go through the routine of frisking her. When she turns, Sean sees the bruise on her cheek, fresh and angry.

“What happened?” Queenan asks.

“I got in an argument with the wrong end of an arm,” she deadpans. “It’s nothing I can’t handle, Captain.”

“If you’re in danger,” Queenan begins.

“You should see the other guy.” She touches the bruise, rougher than she should with how new it is, but she doesn’t flinch. “He’s not in the hospital, but it was close. I’m getting Nicastro’s personal attention.”

Sean ignores Queenan’s look. “Personal attention can be dangerous.”

“I know, but it can also help get him down, and that’s my goal.”

When she doesn’t say more, Sean asks, “What do you have for us today?”

The entirety of her progress boils down to having met Nicastro and being asked, not gently, about being a cop. After, she strides off, her shoulders held tight and mouth pressed in a hard line. Anyone would be an idiot to intercept her, especially with how her arms are so tense they’re bulging. All part of the act—if she gets asked about talking to the cops, she can bullshit something that much more easily. Or maybe it’s not part of the act with her, but it helps.

Sean once again tells himself he’s an idiot. He’s not one of the undercovers anymore; he’s their protector, and if he’s an idiot, they might be at risk.

It’s not happening again.


	17. Chapter 17

“Hey, Dignam.”

Sean turns to see Figueroa, just outside the door of the break room. “Yeah?”

“Congratulations on Middlebrook and Williams. I heard sentencing’s today.”

“Yeah, the ADA hopes they’ll get life, between the murder and the drugs.”

“Must have been rough, witnessing all that and not being able to do anything to stop it.” Figueroa’s tone is almost sympathetic, not mocking or harsh.

Sean shrugs. “All kinds of shit happened. That was probably the worst.” He turns back to pouring his coffee.

“I couldn’t have handled being undercover, that pressure. Anyway, congratulations.”

“Thanks.” When Sean turns back, Figueroa’s gone, and Sean has no idea what the fuck just happened.

He stops in Queenan’s office and asks, “What’s on the schedule today?”

“We’re putting out a search on Lori Acardi,” Queenan answers. “We can’t do Hardison. If she’s alive, she won’t be if Nicastro gets wind of it, but we might be able to find out if Acardi is alive.”

Sean nods and sets his coffee down on the small desk. “What do you need me to do?”

“I’m going to write up a description of her. You’re going to get it faxed out to all departments—not precincts, the departments can distribute on their own—and morgues in Massachusetts.”

Sean groans inwardly. “So I’m hunting down a list of numbers.”

“That’s right.”

Since that’s apparently the entirety of his job for the day, Sean picks his coffee back up and leaves Queenan’s office to find a secretary who might have what he needs.

When Queenan has it printed up in a large sans-serif font, Sean reads it over. There’s a picture of Hardison on top, followed by text:  


> WANTED: **LORI ACARDI** ON SUSPICION OF DRUG-RUNNING  
>   
>  FIVE FEET SIX AND A HALF INCHES TALL, DARK BROWN HAIR, LIGHT BROWN EYES, SLIM BUILD  
>   
>  LAST KNOWN LOCATION: CHICOPEE, MA  
>   
>  CONTACT CAPTAIN CHARLES QUEENAN, MASSACHUSETTS STATE POLICE, IF LOCATED

  
Queenan’s number is underneath, and Sean has to appreciate the efficiency of it. If she turns up, she’ll hopefully be turned over to them.

Queenan has to be getting desperate if he’s putting her face out there. Sean can’t imagine how he feels, one of his charges just vanishing like this. Sean would be pissed and, all right, worried as all hell.

He spends two hours faxing the damn thing to every police and sheriff’s department he has information for. Finally, when he’s done, he goes back to Queenan’s office and says, “They’re out. Efficient statement.”

“I just hope she turns up,” Queenan grumbles. “I have a meeting with a couple of other captains soon, but Silverman called and needs someone to meet with him. You’re up.”

Sean bites back his immediate response and instead says, “You haven’t sent me out alone before.”

“Is there a problem with that?” Queenan asks, glancing up. “You know what you’re doing. Just don’t antagonize him unless you have to and you’ll be fine.”

Sean smirks. “You know me, Captain. I can’t promise anything of the sort.”

“You’re standing in for me, Sean. Don’t make me look bad.”

That one hits him where it hurts. “I won’t. When and where?”

“At the Hatch Shell at one-thirty.”

Sean nods. Open area, but it’s not like pornographers are going to be following Silverman around. “Got it. I’ll be there.”

And he is, a little early so he can scope out the area. He only sees a few people, just families, and finds a tree to wait by.

Silverman’s hands twitch when he finds Sean. He keeps adjusting his glasses, pulling at the hem of his t-shirt, and Sean watches all that when he asks, “What’s going on, Silverman?”

“I got a job keeping records and sometimes working a camera for Prowling Kittens.” Silverman rubs the back of his neck. “I don’t have evidence yet, I’m too new, but three of the girls look no older than sixteen, and one has to be fourteen.”

Sean’s hands tighten. He can’t help imagining Ursula as one of those girls. She’s eleven now, almost the age of the younger girl if Silverman is right. Almost worse, he’s imagining Jamie in ten years. “Try not to work the camera,” Sean directs, “but talk to the girls, get an idea of their ages, and when you can, look at the records and see if they’re forged.”

Silverman nods. “I know. The temptation to arrest them all outright…”

“I know,” Sean says, gently for him. “Poor girls, right? Any boys who look under eighteen?”

“They don’t cater to that crowd,” Silverman says, almost bitterly. “I asked, and Edie Hicks—she hired me—laughed and asked if I’m ‘into that’, if I’m a fag.”

Sean’s eyes narrow. “There’s a _woman_ involved?” He shouldn’t be surprised. At least one prostitution ring they know is run by a madam, but they don’t think that Marie Vipond has any underage girls. This, though…

“She’s high up.” Silverman scrubs one hand over the back of the other. “I don’t know exactly how high. It’s hard to figure it out—Prowling Kittens is privately owned. I _think_ she’s sleeping with Lester Wade, the owner.”

Lester. There’s a name that almost screams ‘predator’. “Got anything else?”

Silverman shakes his head. “Sorry. I’m working on it. I should get into the files soon, though. I’ll call when I do.”

“Stay safe. They might be protective of their business.”

“Of course they are. They asked if I’m a cop, which was my first red flag.”

Sean blows out a breath. “You didn’t think to fucking mention that?”

“I just did,” Silverman says flatly, “and it hints at girls being underage without guaranteeing they are. It’s not evidence.”

He has something of a point. “Keep your eyes open, do your best to keep these girls safe, and call me or Captain Queenan as soon as you have a damn thing, got it, Silverman?”

“I know,” Silverman says, almost testily. “I may not have been undercover before, but I’ve been a detective for three years. I know what I’m doing.”

“You better. Don’t fuck this up, Silverman. Stay off their sets as much as you can, stick to the records, get back to us. Now walk away first, and I’ll wait a few minutes.”

Silverman nods jerkily and strolls off. He looks just as nervous as usual. Sean figures it’s as close to normal as he gets. He jots himself notes to give to Queenan when he gets back to the department and Queenan’s out of his meeting, and then waits before he leaves in the opposite direction.

Queenan returns to his office a few minutes after Sean’s leaned up against the door to wait. He follows Queenan in and shuts the thing behind him. “Silverman’s in with Prowling Kittens.”

“Prowling Kittens,” Queenan repeats. “What a name.”

“He says some of the girls look seriously underage—one can’t be over fourteen.” He meets Queenan’s eyes. “Have to tell you, Captain, it’s taking serious effort not to bust them right now.”

“I know, Sean.”

“He’s in charge of records,” he continues, “so he should be able to get us something soon. If those girls _are_ that young, I want them out of there as soon as it can happen.”

“We’ll get the warrant as soon as he gets us evidence,” Queenan says quietly.

“It’s basically child prostitution,” Sean says, “and that carries a pretty big penalty.”

“Child pornography is worse, and worse the younger the child is. If we can get the studio’s distribution list when we take them down, it’s a big bust.” Queenan shrugs. “We’ll keep meeting with Silverman and take them out as soon as we can.”

“I need to write this up in his file.”

“Do that,” Queenan agrees. “Is there anything else?”

“How was your meeting?”

“It was fine.” His tone forbids further questions, and Sean briefly considers asking anyway. Instead, he holds up his notepad.

“If you need me.”

“I know. You did well, Sean.”

Sean nods and turns to head for his office. This isn’t nearly what he wants to be doing on this case, but there’s nothing else he _can_ do.

He fucking hates his job sometimes.

He hates it much, much less the later that day, though. He leaves the office to head to court and slips into the back, standing with his arms crossed while Judge Goldstein goes through the charges and convictions again. Then he looks at the defense table, at Middlebrook and Williams.

“You killed a man because you claimed, after never discussing it before, that he was moving in on your so-called territory. The facts of the murder are indisputable. So are the facts of your drug-dealing and major movements of cocaine, among other illicit substances. Because of the grievous nature of your crimes, I hereby sentence you to fifty years in prison for the murder and twenty for each count of selling drugs, to run consecutively, to be served at a location determined by the Department of Corrections. You will be eligible for parole after eighty years.” He slams his gavel and stands; so does the rest of the court.

Sean manages not to do more than smile a little as he turns to leave. It’s not a perfect sentence, but they’ll never live to be eligible for parole, and that’s something. And he’s pretty sure that, even if they somehow do, they won’t get it.


	18. Chapter 18

Sean drives them back to Robert’s house from supper in pleasant quiet, Robert’s hand light on his knee and not venturing upward until he’s pulled into the drive next to Robert’s car. Then he slides it up Sean’s thigh to cup him through his pants.

“Coming in?”

“How can I resist that offer?” he asks with a smile. Robert smiles softly back and leans over to kiss him, slow and deep.

Inside, it’s just as slow and easy; Robert uses his mouth to roll a condom onto Sean and sucks him off, taking his dick deep and working his throat around him, the tightness good enough that he rocks his hips slowly. Then Robert pulls back and looks up at him to say, “I want to come with you.”

So instead they both lie down on the bed, facing each other, and kiss deeply before Sean slides down enough that his dick rubs against Robert’s, making him hiss a breath. Robert ducks his head to kiss him, and Sean grabs Robert’s ass and rolls his hips, same as Robert does, and Robert finally snakes a hand between them to grip their dicks, pressing them together, and pump hard and fast. Sean comes first, spilling between their stomachs, and Robert’s almost right after, grunting in pleasure.

Sean rolls on his back when he starts to soften, breathing deep. “I should clean up.”

“Early day tomorrow?” Robert asks after a moment.

“Gym, then meetings and shit. Date on Friday, right?”

“Yeah.” Robert turns his head and kisses Sean’s cheek, and Sean turns to kiss him back. “Dinner, my treat. I made reservations.”

It’s pointless to argue with him—Sean’s tried it a few times, and he always ends up losing. “Okay. I can stay over then.”

“Good.” Robert kisses him, lingering, before sitting up. “Want to shower?”

“Yeah,” Sean says with a smile, “let’s do that.”

The next morning, he hits the gym, going for weight machines. He gets plenty of cardio with running most mornings.

When he’s done, a good ache throughout his body and sweat soaking his back and under his arms, he heads for the locker room to find his towel and soap. He cleans up in one of the shower stalls and wraps the towel around himself before returning to his locker.

Figueroa’s a few over, talking to Miller. “Fox and Crow is tonight, right?” Sean hears Miller say.

Sean pulls out his clean clothes and finishes toweling off before he starts to dress.

“Yeah, at eight,” Figueroa replies. There’s a pause, and then he says, “Hey, Dignam.”

Sean glances over. “Yeah?”

“You want to get drinks tonight? A few of us are going to the Fox and Crow.”

Sean shrugs. “Ellerby going to be there?” He’s not drinking with that prick.

Miller makes a face. “Fuck no.”

Sean smirks and says, “Then sure.”

“Eight,” Figueroa says. “There’s a T stop nearby.”

Sean nods. “I know where it is.”

“See you there.” Figueroa buttons his shirt and fastens his holster before leaving.

“You should come out more,” Miller says. “You could tell us about working Costello.” Miller’s not bad. He and Sean went through the academy together, and they got along decently.

“Get a few beers in me and I might do that,” Sean agrees. “You really want to know about it?”

“Costello’s mythical, and you actually know him. If we’re going to work him, we should know.” Miller grins. “Besides, it sounds fucking interesting, and you scored two convictions with your first time testifying. You’re a good cop, even if some guys have a problem with you.”

“Thanks.” Sean shrugs on his shirt. “See you tonight.”

“Yeah, see you.” Miller leaves, and Sean does the same a moment later.

The last time he went drinking with a group, it was the crew. Not exactly the same as drinking with a bunch of cops, but this is different in a good way.

Sean gets to the Fox and Crow just before eight, and Figueroa is already there. He has a couple of tables pushed together, and he nods at Sean. “I’ll get a pitcher soon,” he says. “They have some pretty decent beer on tap, not just Bud and shit.”

“You want anything to eat?” Sean asks.

“A burger, if you don’t mind.”

Sean orders two burgers with fries, and the bartender says, “I’ll start your tab. I trust cops.”

Apparently, the other guys come here pretty often. Either that, or the bartender just knows cops when he sees them. Some bartenders have that sense.

The bar isn’t too crowded on a Thursday. The others trickle in slowly. Miller gets the pitcher and eight glasses, and he sits by Figueroa. Sean’s a couple of seats away. They’re joined by Easley, of all people, who grins at Sean. “Never would have figured you for the social type, Dignam.”

“Wouldn’t have thought you’d have friends already,” Sean returns.

“I did before Van Kais. I might have disappeared for a while—”

“We didn’t know what happened to you for _four years_ ,” Figueroa interjects.

“—but I still knew them when I came back.”

That makes sense, even to a friendless bastard. Sean pours Easley a beer and hands it over when he sits between Sean and Figueroa.

Clark and Von Bryant join them, and when a woman Sean vaguely recognizes—Levy, he thinks her name is—shows up, she gets another glass and sits by Miller, instantly giving him shit that he returns. The tables are filled out with another Sean doesn’t really know, Fischer, and then it’s a crowd of cops passing pitchers of beer and ordering food. It feels like part of the experience he sort of wanted when he originally applied for the academy, and it’s been six years in the making, but that’s fine by him.

“So Dignam,” Figueroa says when they’re most of the way through their third pitcher, “what’s Costello really like? Jim said you’d talk.”

Sean shoots Miller a look and gets an innocent expression in response. “Fucked the hell up,” Sean says. “He’s a real bastard to everyone but French and usually Gwen, his… I don’t know what the fuck she is, common-law wife, I guess. But he cheats on her all the fucking time, usually with high-class whores. He fucks with his crews—tells them they’ll be doing something and switches at the last minute.” He shrugs. “What else do you want to know?”

A lot, as it turns out, but they at least ply him with good beer as they question him. It’s like a friendly interrogation without the recordings or one-way mirror. He describes how the crews function, how French is Costello’s second-in-command and best friend in one, the way drug dealing works from the inside, what bookies and debtors are treated like, how Costello manages his money-laundering businesses, everything he knows. He’s almost surprised no one’s taking notes. It’s probably because most of them work with him and Queenan, excepting Easley now, and they can prod at him anytime they need to. Easley focuses most on the money laundering, asking him for more about that. Fucking White Collar. And nobody at all asks about current undercovers.

They move on eventually, bullshitting about the job, families. Miller and Figueroa are the first to stand, looking fairly steady. “I’m leaving,” Figueroa says after putting cash on the table, a move Miller mimics.

“My stop’s near yours, I’ll come with,” Miller says.

The rest of them say their goodbyes, and then Sean gets up. “I’m off. Early morning.”

Easley gives him a knowing look that he ignores; the rest of them murmur goodbyes and promptly go back to their conversations. Sean tosses down money for his part of the tab and heads out of the bar, mostly steady on his feet.

He calls Robert when he gets home, and when Robert answers, says, “Sorry, it’s late.” He’s proud that he’s not remotely slurring.

“I was awake anyway. How are you?”

“Kind of drunk,” Sean admits. “I got invited out with some other cops.”

“Hey, that’s good. You don’t do it enough.”

Sean shrugs to himself. “Probably not. Tomorrow night, you and me?”

“Right. Reservations are for seven-thirty, but I can probably push them back if I need to.”

“I’ll be home. Or I’ll meet you.”

“No, I’ll pick you up,” Robert replies. “If you’re coming back here, anyway.”

Sean leers at nothing. “Yeah, I’m coming back.”

Robert laughs. “I feel like there was supposed to be innuendo in there.”

After a brief pause, Sean says, “There was.”

“It failed. Do you want me to come over?”

“I can handle being drunk,” he says with as much dignity as he can manage.

“Okay then. Don’t be too hungover to work.”

“I’m not _that_ drunk.”

“Good. I think your captain would kill you.”

“Maybe. Goodnight, Robert.”

“Goodnight, Sean. Drink water.”

Sean hangs up and goes to take Robert’s advice, downing several glasses in a row. Then he takes a couple of aspirin; he has no idea if they do any good the same night as getting drunk, but they don’t seem to hurt.

Sure enough, he doesn’t really have a hangover in the morning, just a slight headache. He tosses back a couple more aspirin and a cup of coffee and heads for the office.


	19. Chapter 19

Sean takes the T to meet Robert in the Common where they plan to go for a run. They’ll probably get a quick lunch after before heading off; Robert has plans to go to the museum and do a little work, and Sean’s going to relax before diving into the week.

He’s a little early, so he stretches and paces where they agreed to meet, until Robert walks up to him. “Hi.”

Sean smiles. “Hi.”

“Let me stretch, and then we can go.”

At some point, Sean’s going to have to ask what Robert has against kissing in public. Now doesn’t seem like the time, though, so he just watches Robert stretch, and then they start off at a slow pace, enough for Sean’s breathing to stay even and steady, until they’ve stretched a second time and then really get going, setting a pace that quickens his breathing and makes him feel his heartbeat increase, steadily pounding against his ribs and in his neck at a familiar speed. He welcomes the stretch and force into his thighs and calves as he moves.

They slow when they’ve looped several blocks and back through the park, and Sean brushes his hand against Robert’s. He doesn’t pull away, which Sean takes to mean he’s not against all public touch. “You want to get lunch together?” he asks as they jog, slow and easy, and his breathing begins to even and get down to its usual frequency. He uses the back of a bench to stretch his quad and hip, and then switches legs.

“Sure. Not unless we can sit outside, though.” Robert grins at him. “It would be a little rude to go in somewhere.”

Sean laughs. “Yeah, it would, wouldn’t it?” He’s not the only one half-soaked in sweat.

“We should go out tomorrow night,” he says, too casually to be real.

“Why’s that?” They usually go out Wednesday and Friday, and then spend Saturday morning together.

“We met three months ago tomorrow.”

Sean hasn’t remotely been tracking that. He pauses. “Oh. Yeah, let’s go somewhere. Have anything in mind?”

“What do you think about Italian? Nice, though, not somewhere we’d usually go.”

“As long as I pay,” Sean says firmly. “You can make reservations, but I’m getting the check.”

Robert shrugs. “Fine with me. There’s a café a couple of blocks over with outdoor seating, if you want to go there.”

“Sounds fine,” Sean agrees. He pauses at a water fountain, and then Robert takes a turn, and Sean touches his arm absently. “Which way?”

“Over here.” Robert brushes against his hand as he turns, and Sean keeps pace with him.

He thinks, vaguely, that he sees someone he recognizes, but he’s not sure and it’s not like he’s going to stop to fucking socialize. He’s occupied. “What kind of café?”

“Sandwiches, soup, the basics.” Robert shrugs. “They basically have something for everyone.”

The menu bears that out. Robert gets some kind of eggplant sandwich; Sean goes for ham and turkey, and they both guzzle water, enough that the waiter looks annoyed to have to keep refilling their glasses. Running in early August can easily make for dehydration, and Sean for one doesn’t feel like having that happen.

Sunday stays as calm as planned, and the undercovers have the decency not to disrupt Sean’s anniversary dinner. He picks up Robert after work and asks, “Where are we going?”

“Baci. Make a right up here.” Robert gives directions the rest of the way, until Sean parks outside a building that looks almost like an old stone-walled church.

“Looks nice,” Sean says as they head inside.

“Messer, party of two,” Robert says to the hostess.

“It’s going to be about five minutes.”

They stand in the lobby; the seats are all taken. “So three months, huh?” Sean asks.

“You haven’t been paying attention.” It’s not a question, but it’s also not accusatory.

Sean shrugs. “I’ve been enjoying the ride. What can I say.”

“Yeah, three months.” Robert touches his hand, quick and light. “I’ve been enjoying it, too.”

They fall quiet while they wait to be called; when they are, they follow the hostess back and sit across from each other at a little table. Sean flips open his menu, scanning it. Assuming it lives up to the prices, the food should be good. “This place looks like an old church.”

“Probably because it is,” Robert says with a shrug. “A Quaker meetinghouse from the eighteen hundreds and then a Protestant church until the area turned too Catholic for it to be profitable.” At Sean’s inquisitive look, he shrugs again. “I’ve come here alone before.”

“So it’s good, huh?”

“Very. I especially like the pheasant _papparedelle_.”

Sean nods and keeps scanning the menu. _Cacciucco_ looks especially good, as does _pollo alla potentina_. Either way, he’ll get a glass of white wine with it.

He ends up going with the _cacciucco_ , and Robert gets the _papparedelle_ he mentioned, and they end up ordering glasses of the same wine. When their waiter asks, “Would you like a bottle instead?” Sean shakes his head.

“We drove.”

Their waiter nods and vanishes. Robert says, “I have a question.”

Sean looks at him. “Yeah?”

Robert glances down at his lap, something Sean’s seen him do before when he’s getting up his nerve, and then back at him. “I’m in love with you.” That is not remotely what Sean could have expected. “And I’d like to be able to spend more time with you than a couple of nights a week, so I was wondering if you’d like to move in with me.”

Sean takes a drink of his water for lack of any words.

“You’ve been talking about moving out of your apartment,” Robert continues, and now he looks nervous. “There’s no point in putting down another deposit and living alone when we could live together.”

“First,” Sean says, “I love you too.” The words are more difficult to get out than they probably should be, but he hasn’t really been in love with anyone since the girl he dated his junior year of college, and he sure as hell hasn’t said it since then. “Second, I need to think about it.” Of all the questions Robert could ask, that’s not what Sean expected. Not that he knows what he _did_ expect, but it wasn’t that.

“That’s fair,” Robert says. “Your lease isn’t up for a couple of months anyway, right?”

“Right, October. I was planning to move then.” Sean shakes his head, just once, to clear his thoughts. “I’ll think about it,” he reiterates.

“It’s an open offer.” Robert picks up his water just as the waiter comes by with their wine. “No deadline or anything. But I have plenty of room, and I was planning to replace the bed in the guest room at some point.”

“Your bed is more comfortable,” Sean muses. “I might move in just for that.” He smirks, and Robert smirks back.

“At least I’d be sharing it.”

“I’d say we could add another date night, but two’s probably my limit a week. Paperwork, meetings, other unexpected stuff, all that shit interrupts it.”

Robert nods. “I understand. It’s too bad you’re salaried. You could make excellent overtime otherwise.”

“Wouldn’t _that_ be nice,” Sean mutters. “I’m still making more than I did when I was undercover, which is nice.”

Robert quirks a smile. “What, you’re telling me Frank Costello doesn’t pay generously?”

“Not exactly a perk of the position,” Sean says dryly. “I was a low pay grade, so to speak.”

“You haven’t told me much about that still.”

“It’s not exactly full of happy fucking memories, so I probably won’t tell you a lot more,” Sean says with a shrug. “Nothing against you, just not something that was a joy to do.”

Robert nods after a moment. “That’s fair. If you ever want to talk about it, though.”

“You’re making all kinds of offers tonight. I’ll end up taking advantage of you.”

He leers at Sean. “There’s another open offer.”

Sean laughs and sips his wine.

The _cacciucco_ , when it comes, is as good as it sounded from the menu description. It probably helps that Boston has so fucking much fresh seafood available, but Sean can’t even identify all the seafood in it, just that it’s flavorful and the sauce is the perfect level of spicy.

Robert has two more glasses of wine than Sean does; Sean sticks to one. Robert isn’t remotely drunk, not even tipsy, when they leave, but he is looser, more relaxed about touching Sean’s shoulder, his back, his arm. Sean likes it. When it comes down to it, he just likes touching and being touched by Robert, something he wouldn’t have thought would happen three months and a day ago. He touches too, unnecessarily guiding Robert to his side of the car with a hand on his arm, and then gets in and starts the car. Robert trails his fingers up and down his arm as he drives, and Sean comments, “You’re touching more.”

“Should I not be?”

“No, it’s fine. You don’t usually.”

He glances over to see Robert staring ahead. “I didn’t know if you cared about the possibility of other cops seeing.”

“Fuck ‘em,” Sean says freely. “If they have a problem, they can say it to my face. I like you more than all of them combined, minus Queenan, anyway.”

He catches Robert’s wide smile from the corner of his eye. “I will keep that in mind.”

“That means we can kiss in public,” Sean adds.

“Glad to have that cleared up.”

Sean parks in front of Robert’s and glances over at him. “Want me to come in?”

“I need to repay you for dinner,” Robert says, flicking a glance over him, and Sean smirks.

“Taking that as a yes.”

He’s repaid with a blowjob; Robert breaks out the tricks he’s learned Sean likes, where to press his tongue and how hard to suck. That makes it unsurprisingly excellent. Once he catches his breath, he drops to his knees, puts a condom on Robert, and the one he gives, with everything he’s learned to do over the last three months, wrings moans and curses out of Robert. When he’s caught his breath again after Sean’s finished, he says, “You’ve gotten a lot better over the last three months.”

“I’ve gotten more practice than my previous _none_.”

Robert smirks. “Glad to be an exception, then.”

Sean doesn’t have a good answer for that, so he kisses him hard.

He only dresses to go home instead of staying over at Robert’s because he has to work in the morning, and it really would be easier if he just lived at the house. There are other arguments to be made, but he’ll think about it more later, maybe get Mrs. Queenan’s input next time he sees her.


	20. Chapter 20

People are whispering.

Not everyone, and Sean’s only actually seen a couple of actually-whispering people, but he’s a cop, and a damn good one at that. He can make inferences about changed behavior toward him.

He hasn’t worked out exactly why, but he has a suspicion. Now that he’s made it clear to Robert that he’s fine with touching, there have been a lot more quick public touches, mostly on the arm or back, and greeting kisses, some of which have happened in bars. The second time it was in a bar, the next table over went quiet, and Sean just gave the guys there a hard stare until they looked away and picked their conversation back up. That’s been his technique the other couple of times it’s been an issue, but mostly it hasn’t; it’s Boston, and not that many people seem to care.

That doesn’t apply, though, to the Massachusetts State Police in general. While his job is safe, protected by law and policy, it can’t stop people from passing rumors, probably based on someone or a couple of someones seeing him out with Robert. He can’t prove it, but given he hasn’t pulled a personal coup in an investigation lately—he wouldn’t possibly have time to investigate something on his own; Undercover eats up all his regular work hours and more—he can’t think of a hell of a lot of reasons anyone would give enough of a shit about him to act differently. Normally, that’s how he likes it: if they leave him alone, he’s not tempted to punch anyone in the face.

Today, it’s making him uneasy that there’s no one besides Queenan he can talk to, and Queenan doesn’t get involved in gossip. He’s too busy and too professional for it.

No one asks him though, not from when he gets to the department, gets coffee, and goes to Queenan’s office. No one says anything directly to him, which is perfectly usual and mutual, and doesn’t give him pause. It’s that fucking whispering that does.

He doesn’t bring it up to Queenan, though, and he won’t without a solid reason. Instead, he says, “What’s on the schedule?”

“Olson is getting an early release,” Queenan says. “I found out this morning. He’ll be out tomorrow. He knows to call us with updates as soon as he has a single thing, even an in. If luck goes our way, we’ll meet with him next week.”

Sean nods, mentally sticking Olson into the spot he vacated with Costello. “Who are we meeting today?”

“I have Connelly at three. Before that, Brown, and we’re both meeting with White Collar in an hour about putting someone into an art smuggling ring. We’re advising them on how to pick someone.”

“I have to write up yesterday’s meeting,” Sean says. “I’ll be back in forty-five.”

Queenan nods. He’s already on something else. Sean absolutely cannot imagine having Queenan’s job, dealing with the brass while managing all the undercovers. For one thing, it means Queenan has to deal with _him_ and Ellerby both, and there’s a shit combination if one ever existed.

It’s not that Ellerby’s a bad person. It’s that he’s an absolute shit cop who thinks he’s good because he’s made staff sergeant, but anyone who can read can pass the tests. Ellerby’s in it for show and the power of the badge, and Sean knows it, and Ellerby knows he knows it. His clean record means jack shit to Sean. He’s been a paper-pusher almost his entire career, and he somehow lucked into SIU. Sean’s reasonably sure someone owed him a favor for _that_ transfer to happen.

Sean sips his coffee while he writes up his notes in Silverman’s file. Silverman has seen forged birth certificates and passed on Social Security numbers he memorized, also fake. Sex Crimes should be serving the warrant the next day, assuming it gets signed, and once they have solid evidence and make arrests, Silverman’s file can be opened and he can complete his actual transfer; it’s even more deserved now than when they pulled him.

The meeting is, as meetings go, not terrible. Granted, it’s Sean, Queenan, and Captain Peterson crammed into Peterson’s office just beside the White Collar bullpen, but Peterson is efficient about his questions. Sean offers his input from his position of being almost a year out, while Queenan gives seasoned opinions on what sort of person would work best. They’re done in under an hour. When they’re leaving Peterson’s office, Easley catches Sean’s eye and gives him a look that has to mean something, complete with raised eyebrows, but Sean can’t answer a question he only suspects is being asked. He meets Easley’s eyes but doesn’t nod, shrug, anything, in case he’s wrong.

Since Sean spends a lot of time in his office or Queenan’s, discussing their undercovers, he doesn’t have to interact with other people a whole lot. He does have to leave to get coffee or water and to go to lunch, though.

Miller joins him, matching his pace. “People are talking about you,” he says in an undertone.

“I fucking figured that much out.”

“Chynoweth says he saw you with some guy, touching each other.” At Sean’s look, Miller adds, “Personally, I don’t give a rat’s ass if it’s true, but you know what cops are like. Protected by the blue line unless you betray it, and some assholes think being gay is a betrayal, makes the badge look bad.”

Sean gives Miller a considering look, then nods. “Thanks for letting me know.”

“No problem. A bunch of us agree it’s no one’s business except yours and the guy’s.” He shrugs. “Drinks on Thursday night, Fox and Crow, if you want to come.”

So Miller means it about not giving a fuck. “Yeah, thanks. I’ll be there.”

Miller nods and peels away to go talk to Levy, who glances past him to Sean and smiles, almost encouragingly. He nods to her and reaches the stairs a moment later.

The inevitable happens when Sean’s on his way back to his office from making sure he’s signed up for the sergeants’ exam. He’s passing the bullpen when he comes to Ellerby, who asks, “Is it true you’re a homo, Dignam?”

Sean cocks his head. “Is it true you can’t get it up unless your wife puts her hair in pigtails?” The temptation to just punch him is there, but he doesn’t have cause for it. Let Ellerby keep talking, and maybe he’ll get it.

“Ellerby,” Miller says when Ellerby opens his mouth, and he’s the same rank as Ellerby, so at least he’ll make a decent witness if things get interesting, “don’t be an asshole.”

“Fuck yourself,” Ellerby says to Miller, but he doesn’t push Sean.

He’s just going to have to keep getting asked, though, or have people speculate, so Sean goes against all his instincts of privacy and says, “Not that it’s any of your fucking business, Ellerby, but yeah, I’m fucking a guy.”

Ellerby’s expression, his mouth agape and his eyes disbelieving, makes it worth the fact that all of SIU is going to think Sean is gay within half an hour.

Sure enough, Figueroa, who wasn’t even in the bullpen, knocks on Sean’s office door after he and Queenan get back from meeting with Brown and sticks his head in without being invited. “That took balls.”

Sean flicks his eyes up. “Maybe that’s part of the problem with the department. No one’s willing to say what’s on their fucking minds unless they’re assholes like Ellerby.”

Figueroa snorts. “You’re going to get all kinds of shit.”

“You think many troopers are going to say anything to me?” Sean asks, and he’s genuinely interested.

Figueroa hesitates before answering. “There’s a lot of respect from working Costello, yeah, but probably not enough.”

Sean shrugs. “If it comes down to it, I have a mean right and a better left.”

He laughs. “Nice to know. Some of us are on your side, anyway.”

“Miller said the same thing.”

“That was before you came out.”

Yeah, that’s what he did, isn’t it? “Same ones on my side?”

“A few more now, actually, mostly because of the balls it took and a few because Ellerby was the one to ask.”

“How did such an incompetent fuck make sergeant?” Sean wonders, and Figueroa laughs, lifting a hand before he leaves.

Figueroa’s right, he knows. There’s going to be his own personal shitstorm. But he knew that going into dating Robert, before he even knew if it’d be worth risking said shit. It’s nothing he can’t handle.

Queenan gets back from his meeting with Connelly as Sean’s getting ready to leave. He comes into Sean’s office and asks, “In front of the SIU bullpen, Sean?”

Sean shrugs on his blazer. “It’s where Ellerby asked, Captain.”

“It’s better than lying,” Queenan allows. “If it comes to it, you have my support.”

“I think we’re best off asking your wife to come down here if it comes to it.”

Queenan smiles. “I’d prefer she not have to come manage a group of children. Try not to rise to anyone’s bait.”

“Unless someone calls me a faggot to my face, I’ll hold off on the sucker punches,” he promises.

“I can try to protect you from a suspension if that happens, but I can’t promise it, Sean.”

He shrugs. “I know. Besides, Figueroa and Miller both said there are cops on my side.”

Queenan nods. “Good. I’d rather not see a black mark on your record as a result of someone else’s actions.”

“My union rep could get it removed if it’s due to harassment,” Sean says, reasonably, he thinks.

“Maybe.” Queenan gives him a steady look. “The brass won’t be sympathetic. Just hold your temper.”

Sean nods. “I’ll see you in the morning, Captain.” He brushes by Queenan as he leaves his office, stopping only to lock the door.

“Sean.”

He looks at him.

“It takes nerve to do the right thing. I’m proud of you.”

“Thank you, sir.” That makes it even more worth it than Ellerby’s expression.


	21. Chapter 21

“It’s solid,” Marc Goetz says. His eyes are darting and he’s holding himself in a near fighting stance, and Sean believes him. A glance tells him Queenan does too.

“When?” Queenan asks.

“Three days.”

“How do you know?” Sean asks bluntly.

Goetz laughs. “I’m in on it. I’ll be there.”

Queenan nods. “So will we. You watch everything and do _not_ give yourself away. I can’t protect you if you do.”

“Believe me, Captain, I know that.”

“Go on,” Queenan says, “and act normally. Text me when you have details.”

Goetz nods. “I will.” He strides off, arms hanging by his sides, his muscles looking tense. Sean watches him a moment before turning to Queenan.

“A gun sale,” he says.

“If we can’t nail Costello on that,” Queenan mutters. In a more normal voice, he continues, “I’ll put it together. I need you on the paperwork while I take care of the people.”

“Why do I always get the fun jobs?” Sean asks, smirking. “I’m starting to think you don’t trust me to be civil.”

“I trust you,” Queenan says, “but I don’t trust others yet. We’re working up to that.”

“They better be adults on Saturday,” he mutters. There’s no way Queenan is going to keep him away from this.

“We’ll have cameras up wherever it is,” Queenan says, like he didn’t even hear that, even though Sean knows he did. “Elizabeth’s going to be annoyed. She was planning to have you and Robert over.”

“Yeah, he’s not going to be too happy either.” They start off in the opposite direction from Goetz. “We had plans.”

“Sunday, after church, if everything goes well,” Queenan decides. “You’ll come over then. We’re going to need at least two techs for the cameras, and I want ten or twelve cops.”

Sean keeps his eyeroll to himself. “It would help with the paperwork to know how many,” he says instead, dry as he can manage with Queenan.

“When I decide who, I’ll tell you,” Queenan repeats. “We’ll need vests for everyone and to make sure they’re good shots, but that’s my job.” They reach the car, and Queenan slides into the passenger seat. When Sean gets in and turns the key, Queenan continues. “As soon as Goetz tells us where, we’ll have the techs figure the number of cameras, and you can requisition those.”

“Any chance we can get him to wear a wire?”

“We can try,” Queenan says with a sigh. “He’s scared of them, says he thinks French has a sixth sense.”

“French thinks he’s not a cop. He won’t notice.” He pulls out of the parking lot. “Make our jobs a hell of a lot easier. I want to nail the bastards.”

“Do you want French or Costello more?” At Sean’s glance, Queenan says, “I’m not going to condemn you for whatever your answer is. It’s just a question.”

Sean taps his thumbs on the steering wheel, squinting to make out the bumper sticker of the car in front of them as they wait at a red. “Both,” he says finally. “I want both the fuckers the same.”

The light turns, and from the corner of his eye, he can see Queenan nod thoughtfully. “We’ll do our best.”

“We’ve been doing our best since before I became a cop. No offense, but there’s got to be a reason Costello skates on everything.”

“I don’t know what it is, but there might be,” Queenan agrees. He shakes his head. “We’ll figure it out.”

Sean gets most of the paperwork filled out that afternoon, just leaving blanks for the number and names of cops they’ll be using and the techs they’ll need. He at least already has two of the latter roped into the deal.

“I can’t stay over Friday,” he tells Robert over supper, chicken and vegetables Robert made. “There’s a work thing Saturday.”

Robert studies him a moment, but he doesn’t ask. “I’ll stay with you, unless you have to leave at some ungodly hour. Your bed’s not as comfortable, but it works pretty well for my purposes.”

Sean snorts. “A floor could work for your purposes.”

Robert smirks. “It has before.”

Sean smirks back. “We could recreate that, but your bed’s much more fucking comfortable.”

“Let’s see how desperate we get,” Robert says, “and we’ll go from there.”

“That a challenge?” Sean spears a piece of summer squash, raising an eyebrow.

“It might be.”

It turns out it is, and it turns out they do land on the hall floor to rub together, managing to kiss and hump and bite, all at once. At least neither of them leaves marks above where a t-shirt would fall.

Sean doesn’t stay the night; he never does during the week. He spends Thursday and Friday sitting in on meetings, talking to people, and doing paperwork for the takedown on Saturday. The cameras are wired at the dock warehouse on Friday night, when no one is around. And Saturday, when they’re all in position, Queenan gets a text from Goetz.

“They’re not coming,” he says after a moment.

“What?” Sean asks. No one else looks like they’re going to. Then, before Queenan can answer, it hits him. “Someone fucking leaked us.”

“There’s no proof of that. Costello just might be paranoid.” Still, Queenan glances around the room, his eyes landing on each man there. Sean’s glowering around too, trying to figure out who looks guilty, like they told someone else. The problem with cops is that they can hide that shit, though, and no one’s showing a damn thing.

After everyone’s left, which isn’t until well after the sale is supposed to happen, and the techs have taken down the cameras, Sean lingers with Queenan.

“What do we do?”

Queenan lets out a breath. “We pay Costello a visit.”

Sean refrains from making a face, but disgust still creeps into his voice. “That’s going to be fucking fun.”

“At least he won’t shoot you,” Queenan says with a faint smile.

Sean laughs. “You really know how to comfort a guy, Captain. When?”

“Monday. I’m taking tomorrow off, and so are you.”

“I have a lot of paperwork,” he starts, and then pauses. He needs to talk to Mrs. Queenan, he remembers. “What time do you want us over?”

Queenan gives him an approving nod. “Church is over at eleven. Come by one. Elizabeth will have food for an army.”

“We’ll be there,” Sean promises.

When Sean and Robert get to the Queenan house the next day, lunch is already on the table, and Sean can imagine how many of the leftovers will be his. Not that he’s complaining; Mrs. Queenan is an amazing cook.

He gets a chance with her when she goes out back alone; Sean follows and gently takes the bowl she’s about to use to pick tomatoes. “I’ll hold it.”

“What’s on your mind?” she asks, bending to push through the leaves. A green smell drifts up, slightly bitter.

“How do you…”

“I have another son. You’re acting the same as Patrick when he needs to talk about something.”

He’s not going to let that ‘another’ sidetrack him. “Robert asked me to move in with him.”

She sets a pair of tomatoes in the bowl. “When was this?”

“A couple of weeks ago. On our three-month anniversary.”

“And you said…”

“That I need to think about it.” He watches her as she stoops and comes up with a giant yellow tomato.

“Why?”

Of course she’s going to try to make him talk about that. “I haven’t lived with anyone since college.” Simple answer, stick with that.

She gives him a shrewd look. “Now try for the real answer, Sean.”

“Why aren’t _you_ a cop?” When she doesn’t answer, he goes on. “I’ve never lived with a person I love. It’s completely different.”

“And frightening.”

He gives her a look.

“You don’t have to say it, Sean, I know it is. It scared me when I moved in with Charlie. I’d known him for almost five years, _and_ we were married. You’ve known Robert three and a half months. Of course it’s frightening.” She straightens, deposits a handful of cherry tomatoes in the bowl, and meets his eyes. “It makes financial sense, and with how you are together, I think you should do it. If you’re comfortable, of course.”

He nods. That’s something to think about, but he does trust her opinion. “Do you have more to pick?”

“There are always more to pick.” She delves back into the bushes, and he follows, taking everything as she’s done.

The next day, after a night of thinking over both what Mrs. Queenan said and their leak issue, Sean meets Queenan and says, “He’ll be at the dog track until noon, with French and maybe with Gwen.”

“You’re sure.”

Sean shrugs. “It’s what he did for five years, except in winter.”

Queenan nods. “We’re going to the dog track.”

The stands are mostly empty on a Monday morning, and Costello’s easy to spot; he’s in a Yankees cap, one of the only men in the city who could get away with that without being harassed, slouched down and studying a track rag, a glass of water in his other hand. French sits to his left, and Gwen is on his right, talking so close to his ear that her red lips almost brush against it. Sean and Queenan sit behind the three of them, and Queenan says, “How much did you make on Saturday, Frank?”

Gwen glances up, gives them a cold look, turns to face the track. Costello looks over his shoulder. “I don’t keep track of daily income.”

Sean can’t help his laughter at the bald-faced lie. “You have fucking ledgers your people update constantly.”

Queenan lightly nudges his ankle with his foot, out of Costello and Frank’s line of sight, and Sean shuts his mouth. “You had a special on Saturday, though, didn’t you?”

Costello turns back to the track, but his voice still carries. “Now that you mention it, Charlie, there was this girl…”

Gwen’s shoulders stay relaxed. Not for the first time, Sean wonders how the fuck that relationship can possibly work.

Costello continues after a moment, “I don’t like having faggots nearby. My skin crawls.”

French chuckles.

Sean leans forward. “Gwen’s the only one you don’t pay who would fuck you, and I’m not sure you don’t.”

That earns Gwen’s low, sneering, “You can go straight to hell, you two-faced queer,” but he’s more interested in Costello’s reaction.

Costello turns back, slowly, his eyes narrow and face tight, an expression that scares the piss out of everyone who works for him, even Fitzy. Only French seems immune. “Rats are bad enough. Rats who take it up the ass aren’t even worth the poison to get rid of them.”

Everyone gets that message. More than clearly, judging by Queenan’s face.

“Francis,” French says, “your dog just won.”

Like that, Costello grins, a chuckle escaping. “If you’re wondering how much I made today,” he says, “two hundred with that dog.” He stands, nodding at Queenan and exaggeratedly touching the bill of his cap at Sean. It takes effort to say seated and not say anything, let alone not hit him.

“That was helpful,” Sean says when they’re back in the lot.

“I wasn’t too hopeful,” Queenan agrees, “but we know something now.”

“Yeah, we have a rat of our own,” Sean mutters. “Have to root him out.”

Queenan nods. “Disinformation for SIU. We’ll come up with something.”

Sean nods. “How much work is it to find one?” He’s never dealt with this before, but he can imagine it isn’t easy.

“That depends on how good he is. If he’s like you, or any of our people, then it won’t exactly be a cakewalk. He’ll keep information to himself, won’t even communicate it through body language.”

Sean snorts. “You’re saying Costello places people the same way you do.”

“He’s not stupid, Sean.”

“No,” Sean agrees. “No, he’s definitely not stupid.” Which is really too bad. Life would be much easier if Frank Costello was a fucking idiot.

And while he’s wishing, Costello could be a dead fucking idiot. Then it would be easiest of all.

“Come on,” Queenan says. “We both have paperwork about Saturday, and I’m going to be questioned about our faulty information. You might be too.”

“That’s easy enough. Costello changed the location for unknown reasons.” Sean shrugs. “All I need to say.”

“Not all they’ll ask,” Queenan says, and Sean knows he’s honest by the look in his eyes.

Fucking brass.


	22. Chapter 22

Robert’s phone rings as Sean is dressing, and he reaches for it. “Hello?” His expression changes, a smile lighting up his face. “I’ll be down tomorrow. Tell her I love her. Fine, tell her when she’ll care. Love you, Stace.” He hangs up and says, “I’m going to New Jersey in the morning.”

Sean grins. “She’s in labor?”

“Yep. Stacy says she should have them any time.” Robert stands and kisses him. “I’m going to be an uncle again!”

Sean laughs. “Yeah, that’s usually the end result of your sister being in labor. You’ll be gone a couple of days?”

“Yeah, I’ll probably be back Friday or Saturday. I’ll take a ton of pictures.”

“Good. I’d come along, but…”

“Yeah, I know. We’ll go down sometime to see them.” Robert kisses him again, beaming. “I’ll call you tomorrow night.”

“Say hi to everyone for me.” Sean finds his belt. “Which hospital is she in?” He can afford flowers.

“Bayshore, in Holmdel. I don’t know the room yet.” Robert grabs a pair of sweats out of his dresser. “I’ll walk you out.”

“I have something for you.” He digs in his pocket as Robert looks at him with interest. Finally, he comes up with a single key on a ring, handing it over. “It’s not the same as moving in, but it’s something.”

Robert kisses him, slow, and says, “I have a spare for you. Could you come over and water the back when you’re off tomorrow?”

“Giving me a key so you can use me?” Sean teases. “Yeah. Might be late, but I can do that.”

“Thanks.” They head for the front of the house; Sean pulls his shoes on in the parlor while Robert rummages in a kitchen drawer. He comes out with a key on a ring Sean recognizes as being from the museum, handing it over. That’s getting replaced with a regular key tag. “Love you.”

Since Robert seems to understand that Sean’s not one for sentiment, he doesn’t need to say it back, and just says, “Call me when you’re coming back.”

“I will,” Robert agrees. “We’ll move date night to Saturday if I’m not?”

“Yeah, I figured we would.” Sean opens the door and pulls Robert down to kiss him hard before leaving.

Since they don’t normally see each other on Thursdays anyway, Sean hardly notices Robert’s gone. He just goes about work as usual. Right now, that means planning disinformation to send through the department to be sure they do have someone leaking information. The problem with that is that they can’t just pass it to a couple of cops and try to figure out which of them it is; shit spreads, always, and Queenan knows it, too.

“Say we have word on a coke deal,” Sean offers. They don’t, of course; Goetz, Olson, and Evan Weiss don’t know anything like that. It’s why it’s good.

Queenan nods thoughtfully. “That could work. We need a when and where.”

“Yacht coming up from Florida, steamer trunk of shit, next Tuesday afternoon,” Sean says promptly. At Queenan’s look, he grins. “I was thinking about it this morning in the gym. It’s the kind of thing Costello would do. Anybody would buy it.”

Queenan shakes his head. “We’ll flush it through. One of our guys will hear about it if there’s a leak.”

“I’ll mention it to a couple of guys,” Sean says.

“I’ll pass it on to Phillips,” Queenan says, “and he’ll make sure SIU hears about it.”

Sean pauses, debating with himself, before asking, “Is there _anything_ on Hardison?”

“Not a damn word,” Queenan says heavily. “I’m close to putting out a notice for her, but in case she’s alive…”

“Yeah, don’t want her turning up fresh,” he agrees. There would be nothing worse for Queenan than being directly responsible for an undercover’s death.

“That’s one way of putting it. We have to let our guys know what to listen for. I’ll set up meets as soon as I can reach them.”

Sean nods. “Let me know. We’re seeing Brown today, right?”

“And Cody later today,” Queenan confirms. “Brown’s in an hour.”

“I’ll drop the coke thing to a couple of people.” Somewhere in all this, he needs to find time to order flowers for Claudia. She’d probably like that.

“That sounds fine. I’ll see Phillips before lunch. Be ready in half an hour.”

“I will,” Sean agrees, and leaves the office.

He doesn’t have to do a lot of looking for one of the guys he knows; Levy, the woman cop with short red hair who’s at the Fox and Crow on those nights Sean gets invited, is talking to Darlene when he leaves Queenan’s office. “When you’re done,” Sean says to her, “got something to talk to you about.” He feels kind of bad; he considers Levy something of a friend. That doesn’t mean he shouldn’t use her for this, though, and it doesn’t mean she’s not the leak.

“Sure,” she agrees, and turns back to Darlene. As soon as she’s done, she asks him, “What is it?”

“We might need you on a bust on Tuesday afternoon if we get a warrant. We have information that Costello has a coke shipment coming in on a yacht.”

She blinks. “Middle of the afternoon? Even for him, that seems brazen. I’m in, as long Queenan’s okay with it.”

“Good,” Sean says with a nod. “We’ll have a meeting if we get the warrant.”

“Sure. Bar next Thursday?”

“Sounds good.”

Levy walks away, and Sean stops at Darlene’s desk. “Can you find me a florist in Holmdel, New Jersey, who can deliver today?”

“You know someone in New Jersey?” She’s already typing.

“Yeah, she had twins last night.”

“Congratulations to her. I’ll call their information and get you some numbers.”

“Thanks, Darlene.” He lets himself back in Queenan’s office, closing the door just long enough to say, “I let Levy know there might be a warrant for a bust on Tuesday.”

Queenan nods. “Good. I’ll say the same.”

He nods and leaves again.

Brown looks just as with it as she always does when they meet. She’s wearing a t-shirt with the sleeves ripped off and a pair of worn jeans; she has a tattoo, just two dates, on her bicep. Sean’s never seen it before. She looks every inch the tough butch. “Captain,” she greets them. “Detective.”

“Spread ‘em,” Sean says.

“Aren’t you a sweet-talker.” She does, though, and over her shoulder, says to Queenan, “I’m in.”

“What do they have you doing?”

Sean steps back. “She’s clean.”

“Of course I’m clean.” She turns back around. “I’m working bookies, mostly. Collections. I have some dealers, too. I’m getting names.” She looks relaxed. Stronger than she did when they recruited her, but not tense, not stressed or anxious.

Queenan nods. “If you can, note amounts, too. You might be in for a while.”

“How long were you in?” she asks Sean.

“Almost five years.”

“With Costello, right?”

“That’s right.”

“You can do it with him, I can do it with Nicastro,” she says firmly. “There’s nothing weird going on right now. I’ll let you know if there is.”

“Is that all?” Queenan asks.

“Yeah. I’ll text if there’s anything new,” she promises.

“If you need to meet, for any reason,” he says.

“I will.”

He nods, and she turns, striding off. Then he looks at Sean. “Darlene said you needed the number of a florist in New Jersey.”

“Robert’s sister, Claudia, had twins last night. Thought it’d be a nice thing to do.”

“I didn’t realize you knew the definition of nice, Sean.”

He smirks, and they leave in the opposite direction from Brown.

Robert’s back Friday night, late, and he comes straight to Sean’s with takeout Thai. “They’re beautiful,” he says as soon as he’s inside.

“Yeah, you’re not at all biased.”

“They are. I’ll show you pictures. Maria Patrice and Joseph Robert,” and he preens at that. “She’s one ounce heavier and half an inch longer. Jamie seems happy about having a brother and sister.” He sets out containers, the rice in the middle and each of their cartons to either side. “That’s yours.”

It’s not until they have plates of food that Robert says, “You know, it’s good, being close to my sisters.”

Sean just looks at him.

Undaunted, he goes on. “I can’t imagine being distanced from them, especially not for years.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Especially from my nieces and nephew. You should write your sister.”

“She’s probably moved.”

“Wouldn’t it be worth it, though? Your differences were over her husband, not either of you.”

“Carrie saw it as being over her marriage. She thought I attacked it. She kicked me out. She doesn’t want to hear from me.”

Robert shrugs. “If it was one of my sisters,” he says, “I’d try anyway.” He digs into his food, and Sean does the same, which gives him an excuse to not meet Robert’s eyes as he turns that over.

He can’t sleep that night. Robert’s fucking fault, of course. He keeps mentally playing over what he’d say in a letter. Not that it really matters, since, like he said, she wouldn’t want to read it and she’s probably moved anyway. Hell, maybe she’s left the bastard and gone to Hawaii.

Even so, what would he say to her? ‘Dear Carrie, I know it’s been four years, but I thought I’d make sure you’re alive.’ Yeah, that’d be great.

When he finds a blank sheet of paper and a Bic the next day, after Robert leaves, he comes up with something much better.  


> Dear Carrie,  
>   
>  You probably don’t want to hear from me, or you would have written in the last six years. I should have in the last four. You’re my sister, though, and I want to know how you and the girls are doing. I miss you.  
>   
>  I’m a detective with the Massachusetts State Police. I take the sergeants’ exam in a week. I worked undercover for five years, and you probably would have heard about the case if you were still in Boston. I’m seeing somebody, and it’s getting serious.  
>   
>  I have no fucking clue how Mom and Dad are doing. I don’t care, either. They’re alive, I know that much.  
>   
>  Mostly, I want to know how you are. I want to know about Ursula and Ophelia. I want to know if you have more kids. Hell, I want to know if you live at the same address. I don’t even know that much about you, and you wouldn’t know it about me, except for this letter.  
>   
>  Call me, if you want, or write back. Something to let me know you’re alive if this letter makes it to you would be nice.  
>   
>  Love,  
>  Sean

  
Underneath, he jots his address and number, and then he flips open his address book, finds an envelope and stamp, and puts together the letter. He’ll drop it in a box when he goes for an evening run, and he won’t assume a goddamn thing if she doesn’t write back.

Monday, they meet with Goetz, Weiss, and Olson in that order. The first two have jack shit. Olson, when he arrives twelve minutes late for their meet, looks pissed as all fuck, his hands shoved in his jacket and a hard scowl on his face.

“French is on a motherfucking rampage,” he says without preamble, while Sean frisks him. “Started about an hour ago.”

Sean smirks. “Yeah, he gets that way. The fuck happened?”

“Something about thinking there’s a fucking rat,” he says sharply. Sean stands, and Olson continues. “He says the cops have intel there’s a yacht coming in, and there’s no fucking reason that should be happening because there’s no fucking yacht. I don’t know how that led him to there being a rat. But he’s French, so who the fuck knows?”

Queenan glances over at Sean, and Olson obviously doesn’t miss it; his eyes narrow. Queenan says, “That’s not good,” but doesn’t elaborate. “What else?”

Olson huffs out a breath. “I haven’t met with Costello yet. French is fucking positive I’m not a cop, though.”

“Right about that,” Sean mutters.

Olson ignores the barb. “I’ve done very fucking little so far. I stood around outside a house in Worcester while they did something inside. I had a gun, and I was supposed to stop anyone who got curious. Nothing happened, and I don’t know what went on inside. I’m earning my chops, that’s all.”

Sean nods. “Takes awhile. Let us know when you have something important.”

“French’s rampage? That was fucking important,” Olson says.

Queenan and Sean leave first, and Sean says, “So we have someone.”

“It looks that way,” Queenan murmurs. Sean glances at him. He looks like he’s running information through his mind, working out who it might be, and there’s no way Sean’s interrupting that. Queenan will fill him in when he’s ready.


	23. Chapter 23

The night before the sergeants’ exam, Sean pulls out all of his notes and turns on Bruce Springsteen for background noise while he studies. He’s sure he’ll pass, but more importantly, _Queenan_ is sure he’ll pass. It won’t hurt to reread what he’s got and write down the things he doesn’t automatically know so he can etch them into his mind. As long as he doesn’t stay up all night, he should be fine.

The next morning, he sits the exam, picking up his pencil the second the lieutenant administering the exam says to. He takes his time so he answers thoroughly. Detectives’ exam wasn’t that long ago, and he remembers what it was like; the sergeants’ exam is similar, just with different questions.

By the time the exam is over, he’s confident he’s passed it. He’ll find out soon enough; not a hell of a lot of other detectives were in the room for the exam, and he’s sure he did well. It should be within a week or so.

A knot has developed between his shoulder blades, throbbing and tight, from bending over papers so long. He may do a shitload of paperwork for Undercover, but he gets plenty of breaks there, talking to Queenan or leaving the office or something else, and he also spends time on the computer.

He pops his back, hard, on the way to their floor, and ignores the looks from the others in the elevator. There are only two of them, and they’re both uniforms. Their opinions don’t matter for shit, whatever they might be.

He knocks once on Queenan’s door before letting himself in. “I miss anything?”

“I had a meeting with Silverman. He brought me more evidence,” Queenan says. “Then I called the Sex Crimes ADAs. We’re getting a warrant served tomorrow.”

Thank fuck that thing’s finally signed. “What do you need me to do?”

“Go on over to Sex Crimes and tell Captain Mason we need a team pulled together to serve a warrant based on information from an undercover. If he has a problem with the fact that we put an undercover for his territory, tell him to come talk to me. _Politely_ , Sean.”

He smirks. “I’m hurt that you don’t trust me.”

“Be flattered that I know you instead. We’ll talk about finding our leak after you do that.”

He nods. “Do I already have an appointment?” Probably.

“Twenty minutes. You know what to do.”

“I do,” he agrees, because he’s been to meetings with Queenan for similar things, and he’s pulled together teams in SIU for other warrants. It’s only different because he’s the only one doing it with a captain he doesn’t know.

“How was the exam?”

Sean waves that off. “Passed it.”

“I thought you would. Congratulations,” Queenan says. “I’m sure you did.”

“Thanks.” Sean knows he means it, too. Queenan wouldn’t bullshit him about something he’s been pushing for months.

“This afternoon, we have another meeting with Cody about prepping to deal with the ADA. I’d like you to be here. You testified coming out of undercover most recently.”

“Any word on the Van Kais trial?” he asks.

Queenan shakes his head. “None. We’ll hear as soon as it’s scheduled, since we’ll both be testifying.”

“Isn’t that a fucking party,” Sean mutters.

“Get used to it,” Queenan says unsympathetically. “It’s part of running this unit.”

He shakes his head. “I know. I don’t care about the actual testimony. It’s all the fucking prep, like I don’t know what to say on the stand without fucking it up for the prosecution.”

“They have to be sure to protect the case.” Queenan shrugs.

“Are we going in with Sex Crimes on this warrant?”

“No, but we’re bringing in Silverman afterward. We’ll do a debriefing, then they will. He’ll get his transfer.” Once again, finally. The guy shouldn’t have been stuck there for weeks on end.

“The fuck took so long?”

“The ADA felt the evidence was inadequate,” Queenan says, and the irritation in his voice must be aimed at the ADA in question. “This time, Silverman had a girl directly tell him she’s seventeen.”

“No saying that’s not enough to go on,” Sean mutters. And if the ADA does, he’s pretty sure Queenan will have an in-person meeting. “Silverman has to be glad. It’s got to make him sick to know what they’re doing.”

“It does,” Queenan says, “but that gives him more to testify about. He hasn’t personally witnessed anything, or he’d be making arrests.”

“I’d be doing more than that. One niece is almost that age.” That one slips out without him meaning it to.

Queenan kindly ignores it. “The girls my son dates are that age.”

Sean shakes his head. “I’m going to see if Mason can fit me in early.”

Queenan nods. “Let me know what he says when you’re done.”

“I will.” Sean leaves his office and heads for the stairs, going down two flights to find Mason’s unit.

Mason’s door is open, but Sean still knocks. “Come in.”

“Captain Mason, Detective Dignam. Can you meet early?”

Mason spreads his hand, gesturing over his desk and its mess of folders and paperwork. “All this can wait until we’re done. Have a seat, Detective.”

Sean does. “How much did Captain Queenan tell you, sir?”

“He said there’s going to be a warrant for us to serve tomorrow.” Mason gives him an expectant look.

Of course that’s all he said. “We have an undercover in with Prowling Kittens Productions.” Mason gives him a sharp look. “Our undercover has seen forged birth certificates and Social Security numbers, and a girl working there told him she’s seventeen. We tried to get the warrant weeks ago, but the ADA felt there was insufficient evidence until today. Captain Queenan and I won’t be there, but our undercover probably will. You know him.”

“Do I.” It doesn’t sound like a question.

“Tobias Silverman. He was going to transfer in before we recruited him.”

“I wondered what happened to him,” Mason says, almost to himself. “So you stole a good detective to do our work anyway.”

Sean shrugs and quirks his mouth. “It’s how our unit works. Silverman did good. He was already going into what we needed someone for. He wanted to do it. And he’s taking down a studio this way, and has copies of records of their buyers. It’s a full ring, Captain.”

“And Silverman got all of this how?”

This time, Sean grins. “They hired him to be their record keeper.”

Mason laughs. “There’s something almost poetic there. Did Captain Queenan tell you anything else to tell me?”

“Just to offer to help you put together a squad if you want, but I think you know your people better than I do.”

“I do,” Mason agrees. “Thank you, Detective.”

“We’re debriefing Silverman first,” he adds. “He’s yours after that. We’ll unlock his records with us and put his transfer through once the warrant is executed.”

“Thank you. I was looking forward to having him.”

Sean nods. “Do you need anything else from me?”

“That’s all, Detective. Tell Queenan to keep me in the loop next time.”

Sean smirks. “I can tell him, but I can tell you right now that he’s not going to do it.”

“Of course not. You undercover types play it close to the vest.”

“It’s the only way to keep our people safe.”

“I understand that. It’s just helpful to know what you’re doing where my unit is concerned. You wouldn’t happen to have anyone in on prostitution rings?”

“I can’t tell you either way,” Sean says. “We’ll help you with anything else you need on this.”

Mason nods. “Thank you. And thank Queenan too, the closemouthed bastard.”

There’s no arguing with the first half of that one. “I’ll pass that on.” He leaves the office. There’s no one he knows in Sex Crimes, not yet; there’s going to be Silverman in two days, but for now, he leaves without so much as a nod to any of them.

Upstairs, he tells Queenan what Mason said, and Queenan laughs. “We came through the academy together,” he explains. “Mason’s an old friend. I never told him I was undercover, and he’s half held it against me since.”

That explains that. “He’s annoyed we took Silverman.”

“He’ll live. He’s getting Silverman and the studio now.” Queenan checks his clock. “Cody should be here soon.”

They pass the time before Cody arrives discussing their undercovers, how they think everyone’s doing, who’s getting too twitchy and potentially self-endangering to stay in, who might have someone onto them, who’s gathering enough evidence to get people taken down. Most of their undercovers are nowhere near ready to be pulled and don’t need to be; Goetz has been under for six years, and his cover is still solid. He’s the longest, but others have been in for three, four years, and they’re still good, gathering evidence and trying to take down the big guys. Hardison had three and a half years when she vanished, and she’s their caution case, proof that even someone who seems strong might be in danger.

Cody shows up right on time. Sean lets him in when he knocks, and he takes a seat.

“You’ll begin meeting with the ADA shortly,” Queenan says. “He needs to prepare pretrial motions. His name is Paul Burgess.”

Cody nods. “Is there anything I need to know?”

“He’s probably going to ask you detailed questions,” Queenan says.

“Very fucking detailed,” Sean murmurs.

“Everything from if you used to how much you sold to the nature of your relationship with Ott.”

Cody hitches an eyebrow. “The nature of my relationship.”

“That’s right. Employer, friend, closer,” Sean says. “Burgess needs to know.”

Cody doesn’t answer, just gives him a look like he’s insane. Sean looks back blandly.

“Is there anything we need to know that you didn’t previously tell us?” Queenan asks. “Anything at all. A time you used we don’t know about, for instance.”

He shakes his head. “I didn’t even drink if I could avoid it, outside a beer a few times. I told you every time I used, and those were to keep my cover.”

Queenan accepts that with a nod. “If anything comes to you, call me on the same number as before.”

“I will, Captain.”

“Burgess is going to annoy the piss out of you,” Sean says. “He’s going to hone your testimony, get very fucking detailed, very into everything you did while you were undercover.” Cody nods. “And you have to put up with it to put Ott away.”

“Any questions?” Queenan asks. Cody shakes his head. “That’s all.”

Cody stands and leaves the room.

The next day, as soon as they get the call that the warrant for Prowling Kittens has been served, Sean goes into the system and reinstates Silverman as a detective, pushing through his transfer to Sex Crimes. He’ll be good there.

He shows up in Queenan’s office the next day, looking haggard and twitchier. He keeps messing with his glasses, smoothing his hair, pulling at his cuffs and the hem of his shirt. “Captain Queenan, Detective Dignam.”

“Detective Silverman,” Queenan replies. “Have a seat.” He takes out his recorder. “This is the first of two debriefings you’ll have today. We’re doing ours, and then you’ll go over to Sex Crimes and Captain Mason will do another. Do you have any questions before we begin?”

He shakes his head.

Queenan switches on the recorder and goes through the preliminaries, stating the date and who’s conducting the interview, asking Silverman his name, birthdate, and badge number, all that. There’s absolutely nothing unexpected in any of Silverman’s answers; Sean already knows when and how he was recruited, what he was doing for Prowling Kittens, the evidence he found, things about the girls he spoke to as far as their ages went.

After, Sean says, “That was anticlimactic.”

Queenan shrugs. “Sometimes it is. Mason’s might be different, more detailed. It only matters at trial.”

The rest of the week is quiet. The weekend would be quiet, except it’s Labor Day, a three-day weekend for both Robert and Sean, and they go down to New Jersey so Sean can meet Maria and Joseph.

Robert’s right. They’re beautiful. Joey has wisps of dark hair and eyelashes, and Maria has a full head of copper hair, her eyebrows and eyelashes delicate. They’ve gotten over their brand-new newborn wrinkling and redness by now, and Claudia looks exhausted but proud. Nathan’s the same.

Jamie, on the other hand, won’t stop chattering about them.

“…and they woke me up when it was _really_ dark outside because they were crying because they wanted Mommy to feed them, and Daddy changes their diapers a lot of the time, but he says I’m too little to do it, so I just watch, and…”

Weirdly, it’s great to be around all the kids. It feels good to be there with Robert, staying at his parents’ house, holding babies no matter which house they’re at. It’s good to chase Jamie around and have a beer with Alejandra after. It feels strange, as welcoming and comfortable as the Queenans’, and it at least takes his mind off the results of the exam.

On Tuesday, there’s an envelope that Darlene hands Sean when he comes back from lunch. He tears into it as he walks and reads the letter, almost smiling to himself, and lets himself into Queenan’s office.

“You’re going to have to introduce me as Sergeant Dignam.”

“Congratulations, Sean.” It takes him a second to identify that tone; Queenan’s voice is full of pride. “You deserve it.”

“Thanks, Captain.” Now he just has to figure out if he’ll tell Jamie to change what she calls him the next time he sees her.


	24. Chapter 24

His lease expires in three weeks, so Sean starts spending evenings packing things up. He’s collecting apartment ads, searching through them for something on the cheap side but better than the current one; he’ll have to decide in the next week or so where he wants to apply so he can move over the last weekend of September. As long as it has built-in air conditioning and more space, it’s going to be an improvement on this.

He brushes aside the niggling thought that there’s already a place he could move; that’s something to deal with when he has more time than the few hours an evening grants. It would be easier than finding a new place to rent, cheaper than putting down a deposit and paying rent each month, but that’s not a good enough reason.

The shit reason doesn’t mean the thought isn’t there, though, and when Robert comes over on Wednesday to help pack and sees the stack of unfolded cardboard boxes and rolls of packing tape, he says, “The offer’s still open,” and immediately continues with, “I brought pizza. Do you have beer?”

“Yeah, it’s something German.” Sean opens his fridge and takes out a couple of bottles, setting them on the table. “I’m not looking forward to scrubbing this thing.”

“I’ll help haul boxes and clean elsewhere, but you’re on your own for the kitchen and bathroom,” Robert informs him. “Do you have to clean the carpet?”

“Good question. I’ll check with the office on it.” He takes down plates and joins Robert at the table. “What kind?”

“Sausage and pepperoni.” Robert opens it, and they each take a couple of slices.

The thought digs in sometime overnight when he sleeps alone after frankly excellent sex. Robert fucked him on the living room carpet, and he has rug burn on his knees from it, but it was too fucking great to care, what with how Robert kept hitting his prostate and the way he worked his hand around Sean’s dick. Sean puts the idea of moving in with Robert aside as much as he can soon as he wakes up. He has a workout to do and actual work to do after that, shit he should be thinking about. There’s a meeting with Goetz and another with Brown this morning, one with Connelly this afternoon for the Van Kais case. He needs to be on his game for all those. He doesn’t need to be thinking about his personal life at work.

Goetz doesn’t have anything new. That doesn’t make it pointless, though; they need to check up on him, not just his information, make sure he’s still doing well, is safe and solid. He is, and that’s good for everyone. He’s collected countless tapes and notes on everyone from dealers to assailants to killers, gotten dealers arrested based on his information. When they pull him out, he’ll take plenty of Costello’s men down. Unfortunately, so far, Fitzy and French aren’t among them, let alone Costello himself.

Brown’s a different story. She’s frowning, thoughtful, when she meets them.

“What’s going on?” Queenan asks.

“I don’t know.” She turns after Sean frisks her. “Or I’m not sure. There’s a rumor that I can’t trace without looking suspicious. Nicastro thinks there are UCs working him, but I don’t know if he has any idea who, or what makes him think that, or if he actually does, or anything useful. I’m keeping my head down,” she adds before either of them can say anything. “I don’t want to end up floating in the harbor. But I’m trying to track where this is coming from. It might not even be true, just a way to provoke cops to come after him and prove it. I don’t know.”

“For now,” Queenan says, “it’s safer if we don’t meet, except by phone. You can tell me when things settle enough to be safe for you to meet one of us.”

“So when he stops hunting,” Brown says with a nod. “Got it.”

“Even longer if it needs to be,” Queenan tells her.

“Look, whatever you have to do to protect yourself, as long as you don’t kill someone, do it,” Sean adds. “I mean fucking anything. They make you do a line of coke, do it.” She nods. “They’ll think it proves you’re not a cop, but it doesn’t. I had to hit a couple of guys when I was in to keep my cover.”

“If they think you’re a cop,” Queenan adds, “come to me immediately, and I will get you safe, that’s a promise. I won’t let anything happen to you.”

“I’ll protect myself,” Brown promises. “Whatever I have to.” She glances to Sean. “You hit guys?”

“Protected me and them at the same time,” he says with a shrug. “If you have to, do it.”

She nods again and looks back to Queenan. “They know I’m a lesbian.”

“What, it took more than looking at you?” Sean asks.

She would probably snap something back if she knew he’s bisexual, but instead she continues, “I think it makes me one of the guys to Nicastro. I’m getting more involved. Collecting from dealers more, anyway, and not many of them are giving me shit about it.”

“Good, that’s good,” Queenan replies, and he looks thoughtful again. “Stay safe.”

“I will. Anything else?”

“No, go ahead.”

She strides off again, projecting that same tough air as last time, and Sean has no doubt she can back it up. He turns to Queenan. “You think she’s good?”

“From what she said, I don’t think Nicastro suspects her. What do you think?”

Sean considers it for a minute or so. “I don’t they’d connect lesbian and undercover cop,” he says finally. “Not with how that type thinks of cops. Or, shit, how cops do.”

Queenan nods. “That sounds right to me. She’ll keep us updated, but I think she’s safe.” There’s an unspoken, ‘Unlike Hardison,’ hanging between them.

When Sean sees Connelly that afternoon, he isn’t as tough as Soares was on testimony prep, probably because Sean isn’t the key witness against Van Kais and the trial isn’t right away. He opens with, “Sergeant, I don’t think this is going to take long.”

“I fucking hope not,” Sean mutters, pulling out a chair and dropping down opposite him. “What do we need to do?”

“Just some basics.” Connelly skims over a legal pad in front of him. “Were you one of the ones to recruit Detective Easley into working undercover?”

“No.”

“What were you doing at the time?”

“I was undercover in Frank Costello’s organization.”

“When did Detective Easley tell you that he had information on Van Kais’ alleged sale of technology to Iran?”

“May 7 of this year.”

“Why do you remember that date?”

“It was my first date with someone.”

Connelly makes a note. “What did you do when you received the information?”

It goes on like that, recapping the raid and all the arrests, and it only takes half an hour all told. Connelly says, “Your testimony should be very helpful, Detective. Is it all right if you specify whom the date was with?”

Sean shrugs. “I don’t give a fuck. If it’s going to help, I’ll do it.”

“Thank you. I’ll call you if I need more.”

Sean stands and grabs his jacket. “Get a conviction, Connelly. Easley worked this case hard.”

“With the hard evidence, I should be able to,” Connelly says.

Sean nods and leaves. The lack of immediate work to fill his time means he starts thinking again about where to move. Even paperwork appeals over that.

He doesn’t have time to pack that night, not with going out to the Fox and Crow. Most of the others are already there, crowded around the table, and a glass of beer gets passed to him almost before he sits.

“What happened to that raid on Costello?” Levy asks.

“Didn’t get the warrant,” Sean lies.

“Fucking sucks. We could have nailed the bastard. Hey, how’s the guy? What’s his name?”

“Robert. He’s good. How are the kids?”

It’s all small talk like that until an apparently-drunk Miller calls down the table, “Are you living with him yet?”

“Jim,” Figueroa says.

“What? I’m living with you.” That brings the table to silence, and Figueroa stares at him. It takes a minute for Miller to mutter a drawn-out, “Shiiiiit.”

“I kind of figured that was going on,” Fischer says slowly, “but was that really how you wanted us to know?”

“No,” Figueroa says. “It’s definitely not. He’s drunk.”

“To answer your question,” Sean says, because he does feel shitty for them; they’re both good guys, “I’m not.”

“How long has it been?” Easley asks.

“Four months.”

“I lived with my husband after three and a half,” Levy says. “Thinking about it yet?”

“Yeah, he offered.” Sean shrugs.

He feels pretty okay about his life being the center of conversation for the next minute or two; it gives Figueroa time to dig money out of his wallet and say something quietly to Miller. He breaks into the conversation to say, “We’re going home.”

“Hey,” Von Bryant says, “we’ll keep it quiet.”

The rest of them agree to that; Sean might be the only one at the table dealing with shit from the rest of the department, but the others have heard about and sometimes seen the crap he gets from Ellerby and others, and he doesn’t want that for them, or for them to deal with the repercussions of fraternizing.

“Thanks,” Figueroa mutters, and tosses down his cash. “Come on, Jim.” He leads Miller out, keeping him stable with one shoulder.

“Miller’s not getting laid,” Easley murmurs, and the rest of them laugh.

“Probably not,” Levy agrees, and then the discussion turns to work.

Easley is the last one, besides Sean, at the table; the two of them collect the cash to pay their tab of several pitchers, and Easley says, “You changed at the end of May.”

“I changed,” Sean repeats.

“Ever so slightly less of an asshole.”

He snorts. “Thanks.”

“Just saying, four months, that means you were with him when that happened, which means he’s a good influence. Maybe you should.”

“Maybe you could keep your unsolicited fucking opinions to yourself,” but he doesn’t snap it, just says it firmly.

“Yeah, maybe I should,” Easley agrees, and heads for the register. Sean leaves the bar, turning the conversation over in his mind, what Easley said and when everyone moved in with their spouses; that Miller and Figueroa live together. It’s a jumble of thoughts that he needs to work out at some point, probably soon so he knows where he’s moving.

And it is soon. Friday night over supper at Robert’s, he says, “That offer still good?”

Robert glances at him, fake-casual. “Which offer, for another glass of wine?”

“Fuck you,” Sean says amiably, “you know which offer.”

“Yeah, I do. It is.”

“Got room for all my shit?”

“You don’t have that much shit,” Robert points out, “and my furniture’s better.”

Sean snorts. “Replace the guest bed with mine and find a place to shove my filing cabinet, make room on the closet shelf for my gun safe, and we’re pretty good, right?”

“Yeah, you could just sell the rest of your furniture if you want.”

“I might do that,” Sean agrees.

Robert nudges his foot under the table. “When do you want to?”

He shrugs. “Next weekend? I’ll finish boxing up this week and put ads in the paper for my junk. Gives you time to get rid of the guest bed and make space.”

“Perfect,” Robert agrees, and breaks into a smile it looks like he was trying like all hell to hold back. “I’m glad.”

“Yeah, that grin there gave you away,” Sean says, and jabs a piece of fish onto his fork. “I’ve never lived with anyone, you know.”

“I haven’t since grad school,” Robert says with a shrug. Sean knows about that ex, Mitchell. “It’s Fridays and Saturdays except with more laundry and cleaning. Maybe less sex, depending on how tired we are.”

“Less sex might be a fucking dealbreaker,” Sean says, straight-faced, and Robert laughs.

“What changed your mind?”

He shrugs. “Having another month to think about it, not wanting to put down a deposit, a talk with Mrs. Queenan. Nothing that huge.”

“I’ll have to thank her.”

“Last night, I was at the bar, and one of the guys got shitfaced. He outed himself and his partner. Swear to god, Figueroa looked like he was going to shoot Miller.”

Robert laughs. “Oh god, I can only imagine.” His smile softens. “I really am glad you’re moving in.”

“I know.” Sean meets his eyes. “I am too.”

“Good,” Robert says simply, and they lapse into a comfortable silence to finish their suppers.


	25. Chapter 25

“Costello has to be getting suspicious,” Sean says.

“We have no indication of that,” Queenan replies.

“I was in for five years. He’s going to start vetting every guy who works for him, just to be sure none of them are cops, and his vetting is violent. Olson’s at the biggest risk, since he’s new.” Sean spins a chair and sits in it backward. “He knows he had a cop. He’s not stupid, Captain. Neither is French. Fitzy, yeah, but not the big guys.”

“Boston PD has two guys in, too,” Queenan tells him. “They have for more than a year.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Sean asks slowly.

“It was irrelevant. I keep in touch with their handler, but he doesn’t know the identity of any of our undercovers.”

“Captain, I can’t work with you if I don’t know things like this.”

“You don’t need to.”

“Yeah, I do. If anything happened to you, I’d be the only one to know everything about the unit, and if I don’t know about the PD’s guys, then I don’t know everything.”

Queenan pauses. “I’ll get you up to speed—” His desk phone rings, shrill and insistent, and he picks up. “Queenan.” He’s quiet a minute. “Next week? All right. I’ll call Easley in. Thank you, Counselor.” He hangs up and says to Sean, “Van Kais is next week. There’s going to be a second trial for the embezzlers.”

“That could be hard to keep up with if I didn’t know the cases,” Sean remarks. “I’ll call Easley in.”

“I’m at the phone.” Queenan picks it back up and dials an extension. “Easley,” he says after a moment. “Captain Queenan. Come to my office as soon as you can. Good.” When he hangs up, he says, “He’s on his way.”

“White Collar must be having a slow day.”

“Maybe. Now, the PD handler is Greg Jennings.” Queenan jots something down and holds it out; Sean gets up to take it, then sits back down. “That’s his number. His undercovers are Timothy Delahunt and Jimmy Bags.”

“I know Delahunt,” Sean says incredulously.

“I know you know him. Jennings passed me some information on you that Delahunt gave him. It wasn’t easy to keep my mouth shut. Same with some of our other guys. He’s a good guy, but he’s not one of us, so don’t tell him anything.”

Sean gives him a look.

“Now you’re caught up,” he says. “Anything else?”

“Yeah, can I borrow Patrick on Saturday?”

Queenan blinks. “What for?”

“I’m moving in with Robert, and an extra set of hands to haul boxes and furniture would make it go faster.”

“He’ll ask for twenty dollars. Don’t pay him.”

That startles a laugh out of him. “Okay. Pick him up at ten?”

“That’s fine,” Queenan agrees. “I’ll let him know. Elizabeth will have supper ready around six. You’re coming.”

“We’re coming,” he says dutifully. Who knows what Mrs. Queenan would do if he ever refused to show up. Probably show up at the house and drag him over.

Queenan looks like he’s about to say something when there’s a knock on the door. Sean gets up again and lets Easley in before taking his seat again.

“Captain,” Easley says with a nod. “Sergeant.”

Sean almost smirks at the realization he has rank.

“The Van Kais trial is scheduled for next week. Jury selection begins Monday,” Queenan says. “You should be prepared. You’ll probably be the first witness.”

“Lots of time with Connelly this week,” Sean puts in. “Hope you’re friends.” Which isn’t to say he and Queenan won’t have just the same kind of face time with Connelly. Everyone in on the bust will probably get some personal attention soon. Theirs just won’t be as long.

“Close enough,” Easley agrees.

“I’d like to go over exactly what you told us when you said you had information on Van Kais’ illegal sales,” Queenan says. “Have a seat.”

Easley grabs the other chair and sits down, facing both of them. “I overheard, and used a warrant-authorized bug to record, a conversation Marcus Santillan, the VP of technological development, had, in which he stated there would be a sale of prototypical computer chips to an Iranian firm through a Taiwanese shell. I had the code to a locked records room, and I checked the files. Contracts confirmed plans for the transaction. I then contacted you,” and he nods to Queenan, “to let you know I had important information that we needed to discuss in person. When we met, I explained what was going to happen, and you said you would get a warrant.”

“Can’t say the last clause on the stand,” Sean says.

“I know. I won’t.”

“Everything up to that sounds good,” Queenan says. “Connelly can play the recording when you bring that up.”

“Soares played a wire recording when I testified,” Sean confirms.

“What happened before we executed the warrant?” Queenan asks.

“I acted normally, did my job the same as always, and didn’t mention the sale of the chips because I wasn’t supposed to know about it, all that. The day the warrant was to be executed, I went into the records room and flagged the drawer the contracts were in with a plus sign written in marker, then made sure pages were sticking up from the file. This made it easier on techs and the troopers who went into the records room looking for the particular file.”

“And what happened when we executed the warrant?”

“I stayed out of the way and played the part of any other employee. I didn’t interact with troopers except to be searched as I left the building. I observed the arrests of executives and three people who had been embezzling.”

“Leave that off,” Sean says. “Doesn’t fucking matter, they’re not in this trial.”

Easley nods. “This is just Santillan and the execs?”

“Right.”

“What about after techs took over the building and employees were released?” Queenan asks.

“I wasn’t asked to come to the station. I went home and celebrated with my wife.” Easley shrugs. “You called on Sunday to ask me to come in on Monday, so I did, and we did my debriefing then.”

“Connelly’s going to ask a lot of background information, so be prepared for that. You’ll want to go over any notes you made during your investigation. We want them put away.”

“It’s not treasonous,” Sean adds, “but what they did was fucking dangerous and violates economic sanctions. Iran does _not_ need chips with military potential.”

“Agreed. It’s part of why I blew the whistle. Did Connelly say when he wants to meet me?”

Queenan shakes his head. “I’m sure he’ll call you soon.”

“If he’s like Soares, it’s going to keep being over lunch and in the evenings. Hope you and your wife didn’t have plans this week.”

“She’ll understand about this. She wants it done with.”

“Not going to be done until the embezzlement trial,” he points out, “and who the fuck knows when that one’s going to be.”

Easley shrugs. “It’s still a big step forward.”

“If you have any issues,” Queenan says, “you’re free to come talk to me.”

“Thank you, Captain.”

“You’re dismissed,” he says, and Easley stands, putting the chair back where it belongs and leaving the office.

Sean says, “If they’re not convicted, the jury is extremely fucked up.”

“He testified several times before I had him go undercover,” Queenan says, “and I’m sure he’ll be prepared. He’ll sway the jury. Connelly’s good, too. His conviction rate is in the eighties.”

“Nice. So what’s next?”

Queenan sobers. “I was going to tell you before Connelly called. I got a call from the Marlborough morgue about a Jane Doe who matches the description of Hardison, though they referred to her as Acardi, and roughly matches the photo. The photo they have is grainy, so I said we’d come to ID the body.”

“Now?” Sean asks, and when Queenan nods, he stands. “I’ll drive.”

“I need to make some calls anyway.”

Sean’s keys are already in his pocket, so they just go to the garage.

It’s a quiet drive, punctuated by Queenan’s calls that Sean tries not to eavesdrop on. He pays more attention to the route and the scenery, and only breaks the silence to double-check the way to the morgue with Queenan.

They sign in at the desk of the cool underground space, and an attendant leads them back to a chilled room. She pulls out a drawer and lowers the sheet to just below the corpse’s shoulders, where Sean can see the tops of the Y-incision. Queenan studies her a moment. The woman does look like Hardison, similar facial structure, but there’s something off that Sean can’t identify. Queenan shakes his head finally.

“Her eyes and mouth are wrong.” He glances at the attendant. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. I’m glad it’s not your girl.”

That seems like an odd thing to say about a potential felon, so Sean asks, “What was the cause of death?”

“She was gutted alive, poor thing.” She covers the corpse again and closes the drawer. Sean exchanges a glance with Queenan, whose expression is one of poorly-disguised relief. Sean can’t blame him. He wouldn’t want someone he’s responsible for to be dead, let alone killed that way.

“There’s still a possibility,” Queenan says when they’re out of the morgue.

Sean nods. “It’s been four months, though. I wouldn’t be surprised if…”

“I know,” Queenan says brusquely. “The odds are not in her favor.”

_We do not deal in self-deception._

“It would be too suspicious to expand the search out of state.” Sean isn’t asking.

Queenan nods anyway. “It might help us, but I can’t justify it. Not yet.”

“If we had someone pose as family,” Sean muses.

“That might work, but how would we phrase the request without giving her away?”

That’s a fair point, and Sean lapses back into quiet as he unlocks his car.

“Let’s get lunch,” Queenan says. “I’ll pay. There’s a diner three blocks down I liked last time I was here.”

“I’m not turning that down, as long as their special isn’t meatloaf this time.” Sean starts the engine and follows Queenan’s directions.

This one is a much nicer place than the one in Pittsfield, not a greasy spoon but an actual quiet diner. Their server is a sweet-looking girl named Felicity, and she gives Sean a smile, glancing up and down at him. He has to smile back, and he doesn’t miss Queenan’s amusement.

“What can I get you?” she asks—him, not them.

“What do you recommend?” he asks.

“We have a great chicken salad with black olives. It sounds strange, but it works great.”

“That, coffee, and water,” Sean says.

Felicity gives him a flirty smile before turning to Queenan. “And for you?”

“I’ll have the grilled chicken breast with tomato and mayo, no lettuce or mustard, and coffee and water.”

“Cream for either of you?”

“Please,” Queenan says.

“I’ll have your drinks right out, and your sandwiches shouldn’t be long.”

“Thank you,” Sean says, and gives her an up-and-down look of his own. She smiles broadly before leaving toward the kitchen.

“Subtle,” Queenan says, and produces his pack of cigarettes. “You mind?”

Sean shakes his head. “You smoke enough when we’re outside.”

“Where there’s fresh air to wash it away from you.” Queenan puts one in his mouth and lights it, inhaling slowly. “Robert doesn’t mind you flirting?”

“It’s harmless. I’m not leaving him for some nineteen-year-old girl, no matter how she looks. Besides, I’d have to live in fucking Marlborough.”

Queenan laughs around his cigarette. “That’s a sound reason.”

“You look like a fifties gangster when you talk like that, the cigarette dangling from your mouth, Captain. It’s unnerving as hell.”

“It takes years of practice. I’m surprised you don’t smoke for stress relief.”

Sean shakes his head. “It was part of the undercover persona. It’s not my real life. Mrs. Queenan really thinks you don’t smoke?”

Felicity comes back with a tray holding a pot of coffee, two glasses of water, and a little pitcher of cream. She sets down the water and cream before pouring coffee into the two mugs already on the table. “There you are. Your sandwiches should be out soon.”

“Thanks, Felicity.” Sean gives her a smile that worked every time he wanted to pick a woman up in a bar before he met Robert. She blushes, and he’s sure he could take her home right now if he wanted.

“You’re welcome.”

Queenan shakes his head when she leaves and doctors his coffee. “Elizabeth isn’t going to know.”

“I wouldn’t tell her. You’d transfer me and I’d have to work directly with fucking Ellerby.”

“As good a reason as any,” Queenan answers, and sets the cream in front of Sean. “Stop flirting.”

“It’s harmless,” Sean says again. He takes care of his own coffee and tries it. It’s surprisingly good, not weak or burned-tasting. “I wouldn’t in front of Robert, anyway.”

“She probably thinks you’re here with your father and flirting despite that.”

“I might as well be,” he says, to his own surprise. He’s been avoiding acknowledging that aspect of their relationship.

“Yes, you might.” Queenan’s phone chirps, and he flips it open, studying it. “Brown.”

“Okay?”

“Fine. Moved up.” He closes it and sets it on the table. Sean reads into that everything Queenan can’t say here: she’s trusted, she’s safe, she’s solid, she’s learning more.

Felicity comes back just after Queenan stubs out his cigarette and Sean’s finished his coffee, and she sets their sandwiches in front of them. “More coffee?” she asks him, and manages to make it sound suggestive.

He smiles at her. “That’d be great.”

“I’ll be right back with it.”

As soon as she’s gone, Sean tries his sandwich. The olives do work strangely well with how the chicken salad is seasoned. If he was a better cook, he could figure it out to reproduce it. Since he’s not, he doesn’t care enough to bother. Queenan looks like he’s enjoying his, too. Felicity comes back and pours his coffee with one of those sweet smiles, and Sean thanks her.

When Queenan’s about half done with his sandwich, he sets it down. After a sip of his coffee, he asks, “What term are you using to describe Robert?”

Sean blinks at him, his mouth too full to answer.

“Lover, partner, boyfriend…” Queenan elaborates.

Sean swallows and drinks water before saying, “He can’t just be Robert?”

“He can, but generally, people have a term.”

“We haven’t talked about it,” Sean says with a shrug. “Jamie—his oldest niece—referred to me as his boyfriend, but it’s nothing we decided, and she’s four anyway.”

Queenan nods. “Patrick asked.”

“I don’t know. If I was pressed, I’d say partner, since I’m moving in.”

“But you prefer nothing.”

“Until we talk about it.” Sean pointedly returns to his sandwich, and Queenan doesn’t ask anything more.


	26. Chapter 26

Sean picks up the small U-Haul, just long enough for the mattress, at nine on Saturday morning. He takes the T there so he doesn’t have to ask Robert to drive; he’s already getting Robert to pick Patrick up while he finishes taping up the last few boxes.

He parks the truck angled across two spaces in the lot so it isn’t sticking out; let the neighbors bitch. Inside, he stops just long enough to grab his mail. He’ll be coming back to check it until his lease is up, even though mail forwarding is set to start Monday, in case the post office fucks up. He has to sell the dining room furniture and the recliner still, anyway. He shuffles through as he climbs the stairs; bill, junk, magazine he never ordered, something for Apartment 12 that he’ll have to leave downstairs, and then he stops shuffling, because in still-familiar script, the upper left corner says ‘Carrie Dignam’.

Dignam.

She left the bastard.

Sean can’t help the grin spreading over his face.

Upstairs, he tosses the rest of the mail on the counter and drops down at the kitchen table, tearing open the envelope. It’s two pages of stationary, written on one side each in rollerball pen that bleeds through to the backs.  


> Dear Sean,  
>   
>  I’ve missed you so much, little brother. I lost your address (actually, Richard threw out the envelopes and cards), and I didn’t know if you’d moved since the last Christmas you sent a card, either, or if you even wanted to hear from me, since you stopped sending cards. And I know you moved since I had your last number, because some stranger answered.  
>   
>  If you saw the return address, you know I left Richard. That was three years ago, when Ursula was nine and Ophelia was seven. My baby, Stephen, was only four months old. I couldn’t take it anymore. Things with him just got too bad. I tried for so long, but he never did. He didn’t give a flying fuck about me. I’m sorry I threw you out. I know you said what you did out of love.  
>   
>  The house, my kids, alimony, and child support are all mine. Thank Christ for a sympathetic judge. I got a job as a receptionist at a doctor’s office almost as soon as I left him, then learned insurance coding and got a raise. I’m doing pretty well for myself and by my kids.  
>   
>  I’m proud of you! I was so happy to see you got to be a trooper. Or should I say sergeant? I’m sure you passed. You always were the smarter of the two of us, college and everything. I’m thinking about going when Stephen’s in elementary school. He just started preschool earlier this month. It saves a little on daycare, but child support pays for both, so it doesn’t matter so much. There are some good community colleges around here.  
>   
>  You’ll have to tell me about your time undercover, whatever you can. I can’t believe I missed a case where you put people away. You didn’t say you did, but I know it. Was it working against Costello? We’re Southie kids, it has to be Costello.  
>   
>  Ursula remembers you. She asks about her Uncle Sean sometimes. She was so excited when I told her you’d written, and she wants to know when she’ll see you again. So do I, for that matter. So, Sean, when can that be? Can you come down for Christmas, or could we come up there? I want to meet your someone. What’s she like?  
>   
>  I want a phone call with you. Weekends are good for me, or after eight on weeknights, but I don’t know about a cop’s schedule, so you should call me as soon as you can. I need to be caught up on your life.  
>   
>  Speaking of life, I don’t know about Mom and Dad either. I never told them about the divorce, even. Of course, you didn’t know until this letter, so maybe that isn’t saying very much.  
>   
>  Call me, Sean. I love you, and I miss you.  
>   
>  Love,  
>  Your big sister,  
>  Carrie

  
Under, she wrote her address and phone number, the same as he did, and he has to stop himself from picking up the phone. He has a little packing to do still, and he has to move everything; if he calls her, they’ll be on the phone too long to make all the moving shit happen in just a few hours.

Instead, he puts the letter back in its envelope, folds it in half, and sticks it in his pocket. He’ll call her after he and Robert get home from the Queenans’.

He rips open the credit card bill, skims it, and gets up to hunt down his checkbook so it can be done with. He can drop it off on the way to the Queenans’ after the truck is returned. Check written and envelope sealed, he sticks it in his other pocket and files the stub. Since he’s there, he wraps the filing cabinet in saran wrap. The trash gets tossed; he leaves the other person’s mail on the table.

By the time Robert and Patrick show up, he has everything boxed and is taping the last few boxes shut. He glances up to catch Patrick surveying things; then he announces, “I am so glad we never moved. This looks hellish.”

“I hope you don’t say that around your mother.”

“Mom’s okay with ‘hell’ and ‘damn’. Where do we start?”

“Let’s get the mattress,” Robert suggests, and the two of them head into the bedroom.

Sean joins them as soon as the last box is taped shut. “You’re going to have to move when you go to college, kid.”

Robert makes some suggestions once they get the mattress and box spring down to the truck. They’ll probably be for the best. Sean’s moved less, and Patrick’s never moved. His ideas are efficient and will probably keep Sean’s shit from getting damaged.

This trip, he remembers the mail that’s not his and grabs it and one of the bookcases. He stops in the lobby just long enough to toss the letter on the ledge under the mailboxes.

The three boxes that go on top of the others are clothes, nothing that’s going to get damaged by sudden braking, and the dishes are in the middle, surrounded by other boxes. The last thing Sean brings down is the small gun safe, which he puts in the trunk of Robert’s car. Patrick hesitates between the vehicles before getting in with Sean.

“Mom’s planning some special supper,” he says.

“She always makes special things.” Sean starts the truck and backs up carefully.

“Really special. She’s celebrating you guys moving in together, I think. She really likes Robert.”

“What about you?” Success. No cars hit. He turns out onto the street.

“What about me?”

“Do you like him?”

“He’s awesome,” he says immediately. “I don’t know who you dated before—”

“Nobody.”

“—but Robert’s really cool, and we talked about college last time you guys were over. He has some good advice. His sister’s in college still, he said.”

“Yeah, she’s sixteen years younger than him. Eight years younger than me.”

Patrick whistles.

“What?”

“That’s a big age difference between you guys.”

“It’s not _that_ bad. It’s not like if you were dating someone eight years older. That would be borderline illegal.”

“I’m seventeen,” he protests.

“I said ‘borderline’, kid. And that’s without considering what your parents and I would do if you were dating a twenty-five-year old.”

Patrick gives him a sly look. “So Robert’s sister is, what, twenty?”

Sean laughs. “Don’t even _think_ about it.”

“Is she hot?”

“She’s Robert’s sister. I wasn’t checking her out.”

“She’s hot,” Patrick declares.

Sean lightly punches him in the shoulder. “She’s three years older than you and lives five hours away. I’m not even introducing you.”

“Aw, c’mon, three years isn’t eight years,” he wheedles.

“You’re getting creepy.”

“I’m joking,” Patrick says, “but I still want to meet his family.”

“Why?” he asks warily.

“They’re going to be sort of in-laws, in a way.” Patrick shrugs. “Mom and Dad want to meet them.”

If they’re talking about family, it’s probably a decent time for full disclosure. “My sister wrote to me,” Sean tells him. “I have to call her.”

“I didn’t even know you _have_ a sister.”

“We had a fight when I was twenty-two and stopped speaking after she threw me out of her house. Hitching a ride to the bus station on Christmas fucking blows, by the way.”

“What was the fight about?”

“I hated her husband,” he says, and leaves it at that.

“So does she know about Robert?” Patrick asks after a moment.

“She just knows I’m dating ‘someone’.”

“Doesn’t know you like guys, huh.”

“Not a goddamn clue.”

“If she loves you, she’ll be cool with it, right?”

Sean just shrugs, and Patrick lets it go. A couple of minutes later, they pull up in front of Robert’s house, where Robert is already parked. Patrick jumps out as soon as the truck is stopped, calling to Robert, “Do you have anything to drink?”

“There’s soda in the fridge. Door’s unlocked,” Robert answers. “Grab me a Sprite.”

Patrick turns back around. “Want anything?”

“Yeah, get me a Coke.”

He nods and heads into the house. Sean gets out of the truck, flipping to the small padlock key on his key ring. “Want a break before we start unloading stuff?” he asks Robert.

“We might as well. Dinner isn’t for hours, and you paid for an all-day rental, right?”

“Minimum they have,” he confirms.

“Break it is.”

They walk together toward the house, and he stops at Robert’s car to ask, “Open the trunk?” When Robert does, he grabs the gun safe.

Robert says, “This is yours too now,” as they start up the walk again.

Sean lets that go and starts, “Queenan was asking.”

“Yeah?”

“Actually, he said Patrick was asking what we call each other.”

Robert doesn’t answer until they’re in the front door; then he says, “I’ve been saying ‘partner’ when you come up. Is that okay?”

“I told him that was probably best.”

Patrick is sipping a Coke and has two other cans of soda out when they get to the kitchen.

Sean asks, “Why were you asking your dad what term to use to refer to Robert in relation to me?”

Patrick gives him a bland look. “‘My sort-of brother’s partner has an MFA from NYU.’ That kind of thing.”

Sean doesn’t bother reacting, just grabs his Coke and pops it open. Robert asks, after a moment, “Sort-of brother?”

“Mom and Dad kind of adopted him.” Patrick shrugs. “And I always wanted an older brother. Sean’s stuck with the job.”

“There are worse younger siblings to have,” Sean says, glancing sidelong at Robert.

“Jenny was…” He shakes his head. “Okay, she kidnapped you, that was unfair of her.”

“She’s not that bad,” he allows. “Patrick was asking if she’s hot.”

The look Robert gives the kid makes Sean glad he hasn’t taken a drink; he’s free to laugh this way.

“I was _teasing_!”

“My sister is off-limits. You’re too young for her,” Robert says in a tone that brooks no argument.

Patrick, being a teenager, argues anyway. “It’s a three year difference. That’s a lot less than you and Sean.”

“Yeah, but we’re both adults and Sean’s in his late twenties, not late teens.”

Patrick rolls his eyes.

“I got you something,” Robert adds to Sean, who’s mid-drink and so just raises an eyebrow. “One minute.” He steps into the parlor and is back in much less than a minute, handing the something over. “We talked about going to a game, so…”

“How did you know I’m free next Sunday?”

“Because Captain Queenan said you would be no matter what it took if it meant you got to go to a Sox game. Yeah, I called.”

Sean grins. “They better kick the Orioles’ asses.” He kisses Robert swiftly. “Thanks.”

Patrick takes a long swallow and then burps, loud and long, before setting down his can. It clangs against the counter, empty. “If you give me the key, I’ll start bringing things in.”

Sean hands the ring over. “Put things in the parlor. We’ll sort them out once everything’s in.”

“I was going to grab clothes boxes first. Shouldn’t those go in the bedroom?”

“Go for it,” Robert says, and Patrick walks away. Once the front door closes, he says to Sean, “Thank-you sex later?”

Sean smirks. “Move-in sex too.”

“Excellent.”

Once they’ve both finished off their sodas, after Patrick has made a trip in, they head out together. Patrick’s just climbing out of the truck, box propped against his leg as he does, and Robert jumps in to get the other one on top of the others. Sean just takes one of the ones on the floor of the truck.

It takes maybe an hour to get everything in and the bed wrestled up the stairs to the guest room. Then they all survey the pile of boxes and nearby furniture together. Patrick finally says, “I’m helping unpack, huh.”

“We’re not taking you home until some of these boxes are empty,” Sean confirms, “and they’re not doing themselves. You could watch TV, if you don’t want to help.”

“My parents have much more Catholic guilt.” All the same, Patrick grabs one of the bookshelves. “Where?”

“Against the wall,” Sean suggests to Robert, who nods. So Patrick takes down the lower-hanging prints on the furniture-free wall, puts them on the coffee table, and positions the bookshelves.

With three of them, it doesn’t take long to get through the book boxes or to move the furniture; Sean leaves the two of them to handle the dishes while he hangs clothes and takes over the two empty drawers in Robert’s dresser. His dresser too, he guesses.

By the time they have to leave to make it to the Queenans’ before supper, everything except rehanging the art is done. Amazing how well things go when it’s one small apartment being moved into a decent-sized house and not much furniture is brought along. It helps that he doesn’t exactly have mementos.

“We’ll drop off the truck, then on the way to the house, I need to stop at the post office,” Sean says to Robert.

“Fine,” he agrees. “We need to fill the tank, right?”

Sean shrugs. “They don’t charge that much more than stations do. It’s fine. Patrick, ride with Robert. You can just wait in the car while I do the return.”

Patrick shrugs. “Fine with me. You owe me twenty bucks, by the way.”

“It’s your job as my sort-of kid brother,” Sean retorts, and laughs at his look.

They get to the Queenan house just after five-fifteen, and Patrick leads them in. “We’re here,” he calls.

“Sean, Charlie’s in his office. He wants to see you,” Mrs. Queenan says from the kitchen. “Tell him I don’t want shop talk after supper’s on the table.”

“I will,” he promises, and leaves Robert there while he goes to find his boss.

Queenan is in his upstairs office, wearing his glasses and reading through something. Sean knocks on the half-open door before stepping in. “You wanted me?”

“I had a thought about Costello’s mole. Close the door.”

Sean does.

“We need to start tracing the backgrounds of SIU cops from Southie, their family members with any affiliations with Costello, and we’ll narrow it from there.”

Sean’s quiet for a moment, studying Queenan, before he deadpans, “I’m not the rat, Captain.”

Queenan gives him a look. “It may work.”

“It could also be someone he bribed. We’d have to get access to everyone’s bank records. Or maybe families’ medical records and see whose bills were paid by a mysterious benefactor. All kinds of ways Costello could get to somebody, Captain.”

“We’ll start with this way,” Queenan says, and Sean’s not going to argue with a tone like that from him.

“Your wife says no shop talk after she puts supper on the table.”

“I’ll have to listen to her,” he agrees, and they leave the office together.

Sean follows his nose to the dining room, where Mrs. Queenan has an amazing spread. “This looks great.” A whole salmon, rolls, roasted potatoes, asparagus, salad, cut-up melon, segmented oranges, and he can smell a cake.

“It should. Now go get the other two, and we can eat.” As Sean leaves the dining room, she calls, “No more work tonight!”

That’s just fine with Sean, and Queenan seems to agree, going by his expression. A work-free night is always more than welcome.

Sean and Robert leave just after nine with four Tupperware containers of leftovers. At first, it feels like just going back to Robert’s for the night, until he remembers, sharply, he’s going _home_.

He brushes that aside and says, “My sister wrote back.”

Robert glances at him. “What did she say?”

“She left the bastard.” He can’t help his grin. “And she misses me, wants to talk soon.”

“You’re calling her tonight?”

“Damn straight.”

“Do you want to get your car now?”

It is on the way. Sean pats his pocket. His keys are there. “Yeah, we should. In case.”

“In case,” Robert echoes. “I’m going to have to get used to living with a cop.”

“Yeah, it’s not like living with most people.” Sean shrugs. “There’s already a gun in your house. Difference right there.”

“Our house,” Robert corrects. “It might be my name on the deed, but it’s ours.”

Sean shrugs again, letting how that feels pass. “I’ll call her when I get home. It might be awhile, depending on if she hangs up when I tell her who I’m living with.”

“You think she will?”

“I have no fucking clue. We never really talked about gayness when we talked before.” Enough about that. He’ll find out what she thinks soon enough. “She had another kid, a boy, a few months before she left him. She went back to being a Dignam.”

“Better than being tied to him,” Robert says. “What did she name the boy?”

“Stephen.”

“Two saints and a Shakespearean character,” Robert muses. “It doesn’t seem like she was going for a theme.”

“Jamie, Maria, and Joseph.”

“I didn’t say Claudia was, either.”

“I’m just glad she didn’t name him something like Bartholomew.”

Robert snorts. “Lucky for him.” He pulls into the old apartment lot, right by Sean’s car, and Sean hops out, leaving the containers on the floor.

“See you at home.” It still feels foreign, and he suspects it will for a while, but in a good way.

Robert’s just turning off the car when Sean pulls into the driveway beside him. He waits for Sean to get out, and they walk in together. Sean pulls out the envelope and takes out Carrie’s letter, turning to the second page, and sits on the couch beside the phone, dialing her. Robert disappears down the hall, probably to give him privacy, and then someone picks up.

“Hello?”

“Carrie?”

“Sean! Oh my god, I wasn’t sure you’d call. Hold on one second.” She says something muffled and then comes back. “Ursula’s about to go to bed, but she wants to say hi.”

“Sure, that’d be great.”

A moment later, a much younger voice says, “Uncle Sean?”

“Hey, sweetheart, how are you?”

“I’m good. I miss you. When can we see you?”

“I need to work that out with your mom, but I miss you too, and your sister.”

“And you need to meet Stephen.”

“I do,” he agrees.

“Mom says I have to go to bed. Night. I love you.”

“Good night. I love you too.”

After another moment, Carrie comes back. “So you’re a sergeant now, right?” Her accent is different, and it takes him a second to figure it out. South Boston is now tempered by Southern, and it sounds downright strange.

“Was there any doubt I’d pass?”

“Not in my mind,” she says. “Not with my little brother. Tell me about your someone.”

Sean’s fingers clench around the receiver. “Yeah,” he says after a second. “Well. We just moved in together. His name’s Robert.”

Carrie’s quiet a moment, then says, “I didn’t know you’re gay.”

“I’m not. I’m bi.”

“You still didn’t tell me.” She sounds put out, but not pissed.

“It’s not something I thought about a lot until lately, Carrie. I mean, I did some, but mostly I was focused on women. Are you pissed?”

“I’m annoyed you didn’t tell me,” she whines, “but that’s all. You’re my little brother, and hell, I was in a straight relationship that turned out like shit. Do what makes you happy. Tell me about him.”

He relaxes, his fingers loosening, and starts to. Somehow, their call turns into three hours of catching each other up. She hears about the Queenans; he hears everything about his nieces and nephew and her jobs. They don’t touch his time undercover or her divorce or ex, though.

She yawns finally and says, “Sorry, sorry. I’m just exhausted. God, it got late.”

Sean glances at the VCR clock. “Fuck, it did, didn’t it?”

“Look, call me next weekend. I want to talk about Christmas. I’d really like to see you.”

“Call me Saturday night,” he suggests. “Got a pen?”

“Umm… yeah, go ahead.”

Sean rattles the number off. “Love you, Carrie.”

“Love you too, Sean.” She hangs up, and Sean does after. He sits on the couch for a minute or two, replaying snippets of their conversation, before getting up and walking down the hall.

Robert is on their bed, stripped to his boxers and reading a hardcover book. “Good call?” he asks.

“Great call.” He begins to undress. “Carrie wants to see me at Christmas.”

“My parents were hoping we’d join the family.”

“I think the Queenans sort of wanted us with them.”

“I don’t know about including the Queenans,” Robert says slowly, “but…how would you feel about mixing your sister and her kids with my family?”

Sean finishes pulling off his shirt as he considers that. “It could work.”

“I’ll talk to Mom or Dad when I can and run it by them.”

“Carrie’s calling on Saturday, so make it before that.”

Robert nods. “I will.” He marks his page and sets the book on his nightstand, looking at Sean with hungry eyes. “Coming?”

“Hope so.” Sean sinks onto the bed and kisses Robert deeply. He slides his hand inside the opening of Robert’s boxers, stroking him; he’s still mostly soft. Some combination of Sean’s hand and their hard kisses take care of that in very little time.

Robert rests his hands on Sean’s waist, thumbs rubbing Sean’s hipbones slowly and fingers dipping below the waistband of Sean’s boxers. They stay like that for a while, kissing and touching, Sean just barely stroking Robert’s dick but mostly resting his hand on it. Robert runs his hands up Sean’s back and just scrapes his nails back down. Sean ends up kneeling over Robert’s legs after about half an hour of that, his dick poking out of the opening of his shorts.

“You want to move on?” Robert murmurs.

Sean laughs. “Yeah, I’m ready to.”

Robert smiles and kisses him again, reaching into his nightstand. “Who’s doing what?”

“As long as there are two orgasms, I don’t care.”

Robert snorts.

“It’s thank-you sex. You decide.”

“Come on, get undressed,” Robert decides.

Sean does and while Robert does the same. He gives him an expectant look. “So?”

“Frotting. Get over me.”

Sean lowers himself, and Robert rolls his hips up slowly. His dick rubs against Sean’s, and he lets out this shuddery little sigh. Sean grins and kisses Robert’s throat, pressing his own hips down.

They keep it slow, making it last nearly twenty minutes before they both lose control, picking up their speed until Sean presses a hand between them and grips their dicks, pumping them together until Robert comes first. The feel of him pulsing against Sean’s dick is just the last little bit of stimulation he needs to come too, and he nearly drops down onto Robert, barely catching himself on his elbows.

“Fuck,” he gets out.

“Fuck,” Robert agrees, and twists down to kiss him. “Good.”

“Very good,” Sean agrees. He shifts off onto his side of the bed, kissing Robert again.

“We can do that any night we want,” Robert says. “Or have sex however we want any night we want.”

“Unless I’m working.”

“Fine, bring me down.”

Sean grins. “I live for it.”

“You’re really fun,” Robert mutters, but he’s smiling.


	27. Chapter 27

Queenan is in a meeting with Phillips when Sean’s desk phone rings on Thursday. He picks it up, glad for the excuse to turn away from files, and says, “Dignam.”

“Sergeant, there’s a woman downstairs asking for Captain Queenan.”

“Thanks, Darlene.” Sean hangs up and stands, leaving his office.

Unless they’re press, there aren’t a lot of people who just come to see Queenan. Their department isn’t homicide or anything else that would require witnesses to come to them on a regular basis. Press also usually calls ahead.

When he gets there, he scans the waiting area as he asks the desk sergeant, “Who’s here to see Captain Queenan?” There’s a man with his hands shoved in his pockets, a woman clutching her purse, a couple of people in suits who carry themselves like press and a woman in a skirt suit who looks like a lawyer, and a woman who looks like she got lost on the way to a Boston PD precinct or homeless shelter, too skinny and bruised, her nose clearly broken and unset, her greasy, lank hair hanging down past her shoulders.

“The beat-up one,” the sergeant says, and Sean walks over to her.

“You’re here to see Captain Queenan?”

She looks up at him, something sparking in her eyes, and he freezes. “Who are you?” Her voice is stronger than it should be when she looks the way she does, hoarse but with power behind it.

“Sergeant Dignam, I work with him in Undercover. Come upstairs, Lori.”

A ghost of a smile crosses her face, and she stands, swaying slightly before she steadies. “You’re the one who was supposed to come to the meet with him.”

“Yeah.” He leads her past the desk and to the elevator, keeping a close eye in case she starts to fall. “He’s going to fucking flip when he comes into his office.”

“What, just because it’s been almost five months?”

“That weight loss kept you from being arrested. We circulated fliers for Acardi with a photo attached.”

“I have a pretty solid case for you,” she said. “Not the one we were after, but a case. Get an ADA and I’ll give them a huge report. Take down at least five or six guys. Maybe not Nicastro, though.”

“Right now, I think Queenan’s going to be more interested in getting you a hospital.”

“I’ll take a hot meal first.”

They don’t talk much more until they get to Queenan’s office, where he grabs a chair for her and leans up against the desk himself. “What happened?”

“Nicastro caught on, or thought he did, but he didn’t want to kill a woman.” She shrugs and holds up her hand, wrapped in a bandage, then gestures to her face. “His guys. I meant it about that meal.”

Christ, five months, held by Nicastro’s goons, Christ knows what happened in that time. “Start with a soda. You want Coke?”

“Sprite would be better.”

He closes the door behind him. There’s a machine in the break room, and he buys the Sprite, taking a moment to think. He really should just get her to a hospital, have Queenan meet them, but he doesn’t think she’d go willingly. And if she’s acting like this after five months when who the fuck knows what happened, she has the willpower to butt heads with him over it long enough for Queenan to get back, anyway.

Fuck, does Queenan know how to pick his undercovers.

She’s still alone when he gets back to the office, no sign of Queenan, and he hands her the can of soda before taking his position again. She watches him for a moment, her eyes sharp and burning in her too-thin face, before saying, “So I’m Lori Hardison, and I’d really like it if you stopped trying to look intimidating.”

“It’s my default,” but he grabs a chair anyway and sits facing her, consciously changing his body language to come across as relaxed. “Sean Dignam. When did they grab you?”

“About three hours before I was supposed to meet Queenan. And you, apparently.” She sips her soda, and the look that crosses her face is nothing short of orgasmic.

“I’m guessing you didn’t get a lot of soda.”

“I didn’t get a lot of anything.” She sips again. “How long is he gonna be? I don’t know you.”

“Should be any minute. I worked Costello’s crew for almost five years. Two of his guys got life sentences over the summer. We’ve been looking for you. I thought you were dead.”

“Queenan didn’t?”

“He doesn’t give up on his guys.”

The man himself walks into his office then and stops dead for a moment before he closes the door. “Hardison, when did you get here?”

“Twenty minutes ago. I stole a car, and Sergeant Dignam here met me in the lobby.” She holds up the soda. “He got me sugar.”

“You look like you could use it.” Queenan sits behind his desk and leans forward. “What happened?”

She repeats her explanation, then continues with, “So they took me to a basement in Easthampton. I spent a lot of time chained to a chair or a bed, and a fuck of a lot of time with them trying to make me say I’m a cop.” She smiles thinly. “Very creative ways, and some not-so-creative ways too. They still don’t know for sure that I’m a cop, or I think I’d actually be dead. I’d really like a hot meal.”

“You can get one in a hospital,” Queenan says. “We’ll do a thorough debriefing after you get checked out.”

“Come on, Captain, I survived this long, just get me a good sandwich or something. Hardboiled eggs and cold rice were nothing compared to hot pastrami.”

“She really liked that first sip of Sprite,” Sean puts in.

“I still like the Sprite,” she corrects.

“How did you get out?”

“They only had one guy in with me this morning. I don’t know why, since it was usually two in the mornings. Skinny little bastard. He unchained me from the bed and was hauling me to the chair for the today’s first round of, ‘Are you a cop, Acardi?’ Elbow to the nose, knee to the balls, and I got out. His car was a junker, made it was easy to hotwire, and I came here.” She shrugs, then winces. “It seemed safer than any other option. And Captain, I’m not going to a fucking hospital unless you station a cop outside the room.”

“That wasn’t even a question. Two troopers will be there, and Sergeant Dignam will stay nearby today.”

“Yeah, it means I don’t have to do the paperwork for your resurrection,” explains Sean.

“I’ll have Darlene fax the stations that we picked up Acardi,” Queenan says, shooting him a reproving look. “But you need to go.”

She sighs. “I want that pastrami after I get checked out.”

“I’ll bring it myself,” Queenan promises.

She gets to her feet. “Then I’ll go to the hospital.”

Queenan sits in the back with her, and he’s on his phone while Sean drives. He calls Darlene first, then has the car Hardison arrived in taken as evidence after she describes it. By the time he’s done with that, they’re in the half-circle in front of the ER. Queenan helps Hardison out so Sean can go park.

Queenan’s string-pulling involves things like “assaulted cop” and “undercover officer held prisoner” and a lot of badge-flashing and calling Sean and Hardison by their ranks, which means they call him ‘Captain’, and it all works; Hardison gets taken off to a room in the ER, and Sean and Queenan linger just outside while she changes into a gown before rejoining her and using a plastic clothing bag the hospital provides to hold her evidentiary clothing.

It’s not until a nurse has started an IV and gotten a preliminary report, leaving behind a promise that a doctor will be in ‘soon’, that Queenan asks Hardison directly.

“Were you ever sexually assaulted?”

“Come on, Captain, Nicastro’s a good Catholic,” and that part is dry, a smirk joining it. “He wouldn’t allow that. Beating the hell out of me, yeah, but no rape.”

Queenan relaxes. Sean asks, “Always men doing it?”

“Yeah. I’d worked with some of them before, and I have names for all of them.” She touches her finger to her temple. “And what they look like.”

“If you hadn’t gotten made,” Sean mutters.

“How did that happen?” Queenan asks.

Hardison gives them a considering look. “Can I use that as a bargaining tool for that pastrami?”

Before either of them can answer, there’s a rap on the door, and then a doctor comes in, a man about five-eleven but unassuming-looking. Bland, radiating calm and reassurance, and Sean doesn’t see Hardison tighten up at all. “Ms. Hardison—”

“Trooper Hardison,” Queenan corrects.

“Apologies, Trooper. I’m Dr. Zapata.” He grabs a stool.

“Call me Lori,” she says.

“Lori. And you two are…”

“My captain and my sergeant. Captain promised me a pastrami sandwich when we’re done here, so can we get moving? I’m starving.”

“Did we get a weight on you?” Zapata flips through her chart.

“I didn’t mean that literally,” she grumbles.

“You look like you are,” Sean informs her.

She gives him a glare that only highlights the bruises on her face and the fact that her cheekbones are trying to cut through the skin on her face.

“Ninety-four pounds,” Zapata says. “And you’re five and a half feet tall?”

“A little over,” she says grudgingly.

“That’s drastically underweight.” Zapata gives her a concerned look, his brow slightly furrowed and mouth held soft. “What’s been going on?”

She blows out a breath. “How much can I say?” she asks Queenan.

“Everything that’s medically relevant.”

She fills the doctor in without naming names, just the bare facts of what happened, and then asks, “Need anything else””

She’s so cold and clinical about it, her voice not wavering, face expressionless, that Sean can’t decide if she’s going to be an excellent witness, or if the jury won’t believe her. He’s also not sure if she’s incredibly well-adapted or incredibly fucked up. A glance at Queenan shows his boss with his arms held loosely over his chest, face neutral too.

“Okay. Do you want them to stay while I examine you?”

“Yes,” she says instantly. “I’m having troopers around as long as I’m here.”

“That might be a while,” Zapata cautions, and stands, taking out his stethoscope.

While he examines her, Sean steps closer to Queenan and, in a low voice, asks, “How fucked up is she?”

“No more than you.” Queenan keeps his eyes on Hardison. “She has an interesting background. Overall, she reminds me a lot of you.”

“Lucky fucking her,” he mutters, and Queenan’s mouth quirks.

By the time Zapata is done, Hardison looks like the adrenaline is wearing off, but manages to make it seem like she’s only lying down because Zapata tells her to before adding, “We’re getting some blood from you, then starting an IV, and you’ll be checked in. Private room, of course.”

“Oh, of course,” Sean says, keeping it drier than he’d really like.

Zapata glances at him, one corner of his mouth just pulled up, and closes Hardison’s chart. “After you’re checked in, we’ll get your x-rays and everything done.”

“That sounds like fun. How about that sandwich?”

He hesitates. “If you eat about a quarter of it, slowly, I think you can handle it.”

“Believe me, I don’t think I could handle a whole grinder right now. Captain, you promised me.”

“I did. I’ll be back soon. Keys, Sergeant?”

Sean hands them over. “Fifth row, toward the back.”

“I’ll find it. Don’t leave her at all,” he adds in an undertone. “Go down to x-ray with her if you have to.”

“I know how to watch someone, Captain.”

After Queenan leaves, Sean takes the stool beside Hardison’s bed. “How much did you not tell Zapata?”

“Plenty.”

“Thought so. Any risk of internal bleeding?”

She shakes her head. “Nothing happened today besides what I did to my guard. Oh, and almost burned my fingers when I wired the car. That’s been nine or ten years, so it was kind of a difficult thing.”

He nods and leans back, doing his damnedest not to look intimidating. If that’s the only thing bothering her, he can avoid it. Probably.

She eats the quarter of the hot pastrami sandwich, accompanied by another Sprite, as she’s being taken upstairs by wheelchair, Queenan and Sean crammed into the elevator with her and the orderly, and somehow Sean ends up playing cupholder. At least she can take it, and give it back, when he bitches at her for it. By the time they get upstairs, there’s a little more non-purple color to her face, and Sean figures she’ll survive to be good on the stand as long as she keeps getting pastrami grinders.


	28. Chapter 28

Sean must sleep hard, because Saturday, he doesn’t wake up until Robert sets a mug of coffee on his nightstand. “Fuck, what time is it?” he mumbles, blinking away sleep.

“Almost ten. I thought you’d want to actually get up.”

“Shit.” Sean pushes himself upright and picks up the mug. “Thanks.”

“What time did you get in last night? I didn’t hear you.”

“Probably because it was almost three. I have a hell of a lot of paperwork to do, and before I could touch it I had to go over testimony for that corporate case.” Sean sips his coffee cautiously, not wanting to start the day with a burned tongue. “And I had to go to talk to the trooper involved with the Thursday thing in person, because Queenan asked. Still spent a fucking long time at my desk.”

Robert nods. “Your sister is supposed to call tonight, right?”

“Yeah, she said she would. Why?”

“I talked to Mom about an hour ago. She’s incredibly excited by the idea of meeting Carrie and your nieces and nephew. I think the part that best sums it up is, ‘Sean’s family is our family, and this comes with more grandchildren.’” Robert grins. “So if Carrie wants to come…”

Sean smiles. “Good. Ursula and Ophelia, at least, are good kids. No idea about Stephen.”

“That’s still a ridiculous group of sibling names.”

“Yeah, but I’m not giving my sister shit about anything.” Sean takes a long drink, then sets down the mug to make it easier to get out of bed. “Did you already run?”

“Yeah, before I talked to Mom. I tried not to wake you when I came back.”

“Thanks for that.” He picks up his coffee, and they walk out of their room, headed down to the kitchen. He’s still in his boxers; he was too tired the night before to strip entirely. “Queenan promised me tonight off to go with tomorrow, so if he tries to get me in, call Mrs. Queenan so she can guilt him.”

Robert laughs. “The funny thing is that I half believe you mean it.”

“Who says I don’t?” He puts his coffee on the table, and Robert sits at the end. Sean pulls down a box of cereal and a bowl, and once his breakfast is put together, he sits down. “We’re having an issue we might have to talk about today, but I’ll be done by five.”

“It’s interesting to live with a cop. I only actually know about a quarter of what you’re talking about when it comes to your job.”

“That,” Sean says around a mouthful of cereal, “is mostly because of which unit I’m in.”

“I’m not complaining, just observing.” Robert stands. “I’m going to do some work out back.”

“Want to get dog?” Sean takes a drink of his coffee and watches Robert turn back around.

“A dog.”

“Four legs, about this tall,” and he holds his hand about two and a half feet up from the floor, “usually has a tail, likes to chew on shit.”

“You’re very helpful,” Robert says with a smile. “Yeah, I’d like that.”

Sean nods. “We can go after the game if you don’t mind a mutt.”

“I’ll find out the shelter’s adoption hours.” Robert bends to kiss him on the cheek. “Your cereal’s getting soggy.” He leaves then for the back, and Sean turns his attention back to his breakfast.

It’s hot to be running, but he does it anyway; he didn’t the day before, with the Hardison thing, and he tries to avoid two days off in a row.

When he gets back, he checks the machine out of habit; Robert might not have heard it if he’s still out back. There’s a blinking ‘1’, so he plays the message as he turns on the faucet and fills a glass.

“Sean,” Queenan says, “call me back when you get this. I don’t need you to go in. We just need to talk.” He reels off his number before the message ends, and Sean regards the machine. He could shower first, but if it’s important, he’ll kick himself after, so he just splashes cold water on his face and gets another glass of water.

That downed and a third in his hand, he walks to the back door and opens it. “Hey,” he calls. Robert looks up from the weeding he’s doing. “Queenan called. I’m calling back from the bedroom.”

“Okay.”

In the bedroom, he dials Queenan’s cell from memory and, when he picks up, says, “You called, Captain?”

“One minute.” He says something, probably to his wife, and a moment later, says, “It’s the rat.”

“Yeah, we got a little sidetracked, didn’t we?”

“For an understandable reason. I have a short list of troopers I’d like you to investigate. Keep it quiet, don’t let anyone know you’re doing it, but you may see something I missed.”

Sean rummages in his nightstand drawer, coming up with a pen and small notepad, and asks, “Who?”

Queenan gives him seven names and adds, “Not today. Start it first thing on Monday morning. Don’t even bother checking in with me. I’ll be in meetings anyway.”

“Anything else?”

“No. I’m still thinking about slipping information through the pipeline again, though. If I come up with something, I’ll let you know on Monday.”

Sean rips off the page and stands. “I’ll think about our options too, try to figure something out.”

“Good. I’ll see you Monday.”

“When’s Hardison supposed to be discharged?”

“Tuesday, if she’s put on some weight. I’m setting up a safe house for her.”

He nods to himself. “I’ll talk to her Monday, when I have time, see if she has anything else for us before the official debriefing, like the fucking location.”

“If she can’t remember, that’s what psychiatrists are for.”

“All right.”

“Enjoy your weekend.” Queenan hangs up, and Sean ends the call, setting the phone back in its cradle. He locks the notepaper in his gun safe and goes to shower.

The phone rings just after eight, while they’re watching _The Rock_. Not a bad movie, and it makes the feds look shitty, which is always a bonus. Robert’s closer, and he picks up with an absent, “Hello?” A second later, he breaks into a broad smile. “Carrie, hi. Sean’s talked about you.”

“Give me the phone.” Sean tries to reach over him for it, and Robert leans away.

“It’s great to finally talk to you. He missed you, you know, and your daughters. You did? Then I guess I should let you two talk.” He passes over the receiver and slips out from under the cord; Sean shifts closer to the end table, and Robert sits beside him, pausing the movie.

“Hi, Carrie.”

“He sounds nice. I’d like to meet him.”

“Yeah, about that. We were thinking—his parents were expecting us to come for Christmas, and I know you wanted to see me then. I want to see you and the kids, too. What do you think about coming to New Jersey to meet everybody? I’ll send you money to help pay for gas, if you need it.”

She’s quiet a minute. “Who’s everyone?”

“Robert, his parents, his three sisters, two brothers-in-law, one four-year-old niece, and three babies.” Absently, he rubs his hand dry against the leg of his jeans. “I understand if you don’t want to.”

“No,” she says slowly. “No, I want to, I think. Are they like family to you?”

He glances over at Robert, who shows no sign of hearing a word Carrie’s saying. “Yeah, they are.”

“Then I want to meet them,” she says firmly. “You’re my brother. I want to meet your family.”

He relaxes. “We’ll figure out all the details closer to then, like where you’ll stay.”

“At Mom and Dad’s,” Robert tells him, “if she’s okay with it.”

He blinks, but relays that to Carrie.

“Really?” She sounds stunned. “It would save a lot on a motel. If they’re sure, then… okay, yeah.”

“Their house is pretty big. They have the room. And they’re great people.”

“Fuck, Sean, _you’re_ saying this about them, they must be.”

He grins. She’s so much his sister, and he missed that. “Hell of a lot better than your bastard ex’s family.”

“That’s not hard. Do you want to talk to my girls?”

He’s not turning that down, so he spends about five minutes on the phone with each of them. Ophelia’s hesitant, and it’s clear she hardly remembers him, but Ursula chatters away about her friends, school, some band she likes called In Sync.

“Put your mom back on,” he says finally. When Carrie comes back, he says, “I need birthdays. I have years of catch-up to do.”

Carrie laughs, sounding a little choked, and gives them; he commits them straight to memory. He’s not missing out on more of his family’s lives.

“That sounded like a good call,” Robert says after Sean hangs up, twenty or so minutes later.

“It was. We’re on for Christmas. Remind me to send her seventy bucks or so for gas.”

“I will. When’s the next birthday?”

“Carrie’s, then Ophelia’s. I have to figure out what to get a ten-year-old girl.”

“Have fun with that. Your birthday’s next month, isn’t it?”

“How the hell do you know that?”

Robert shrugs, picking up the remote. “Mrs. Queenan. It wouldn’t kill you to tell me, you know. Want to watch this still?”

Sean rolls his eyes and sinks down in the couch. “Yeah.”

Robert hits play and oh-so-casually drapes an arm around Sean’s shoulders. Sean leans up to kiss him, and most of the movie gets ignored in favor of making out. By the time it’s over, Sean’s straddling Robert, both of them shirtless, and they’re kissing desperately, lip-biting and pressing tongues together.

They take their time the next morning, before the game; they run together, and then Sean moves the coffee table so he can do push-ups in the parlor, followed by squat-thrusts, and he’s drenched by the time he’s done. He pulls off his shirt to wipe his face and hears Robert whistle.

“Very hot.”

“Keeps me in shape for chasing fuckers down.” He brushes past Robert on his way to the stairs, and Robert catches him, a hand on his waist, just long enough for a hard kiss.

“I’m making sandwiches. Hungry?”

“Starved.”

“It’ll be ready when you come back down.”

Robert’s true to his word; there’s a thick turkey and roast beef sandwich with tomatoes, lettuce, and cheese on a plate on the kitchen table, a glass of water beside the plate. Sean digs in, not asking until he’s about a quarter through the sandwich, “We’re still going to the shelter today?”

“Yeah, they’ll be open after the game.”

“I don’t want a little yappy thing.”

Robert snorts. “I’m absolutely shocked by this revelation.” Sean smirks. “I was thinking something big enough to go running with us,” he continues. “What do you think?”

Sean nods. “Preferably something already housebroken.” Cleanup would fall on Robert otherwise, and that’s not fair.

“So at least half-grown.” Robert drinks his water. “I don’t care how big it gets. Do you?”

He shrugs. “Not really. Like I said, just not little.”

Robert nods and returns to his sandwich, and Sean does the same. After they eat, Sean grabs the tickets and puts them in his wallet, and they leave to walk down to the nearest T stop.

The Sox are going to the division series, scheduled to be up against Cleveland, but that won’t start until Tuesday. That doesn’t matter, though; Sean hasn’t been to any Sox game since college, and it’s refreshing just to see the team play. The way the Sox crowd roars says everything about what it’s like to be from Boston.

There’s definitely going to be thank-you sex for it.

The Sox win, six to four, and the crush of Bostonians leaving is full of laughing, grinning fans. It means the T cars are claustrophobically full, but Sean doesn’t mind. He and Robert hold onto the same pole, pressed together in the pack of people, and at their stop, they have to nearly force their way out.

“My car?” Sean suggests as they walk back to the house.

“Sure,” Robert agrees. “We’ll have to go get dog stuff if we get one tonight. There’s room in your trunk?”

“Plenty,” he confirms.

They don’t even have to go in when they get home, just open the garage and get in the car.

The dog section of the shelter is full of deafening barks and whines. Over it, Robert says to the woman guiding them, “We’re looking for a big dog that we can take running.”

“How big?” she asks.

They exchange a glance; then Sean says, “Something well-behaved around kids, but otherwise, doesn’t matter. If it would have a hard time finding a home, we’ll take it.”

“I think we have a perfect one for you.” She takes them to a kennel that houses a half-grown dog. He has rough-looking fur that’s on the longer side, most of it deep brown but with black markings over his eyes and in a saddle shape across his back. He’s stocky, broad-headed and long-muzzled, and his shoulder comes probably a little higher than Sean’s knee. “As best as we can tell, he’s a German Shepherd and Rottweiler mix. He’s sweet, but the breeds put off a lot of people, and he’s really active.”

“Housebroken?” Robert asks.

She nods. “And he’s neutered and fully vaccinated. Do you want to take him out?”

They glance at each other again; then Sean says, “Yeah, let’s.”

She opens the door of the kennel and loops a nylon rope leash around his neck; he presses past her to get to Sean and Robert, wagging his tail fiercely, and licks their hands.

The dog knows a few commands, when they try them out in the small yard; he’ll sit, lie down, and come on command. He tries to jump up on them until he’s told, “Down,” and he licks their hands at every opportunity.

“What do you think?” Robert asks.

“I think he’s our dog.”

Robert grins. “I was hoping you’d say that.”

“What do you think of naming him Cy?”

“Perfect,” Robert agrees, and walks over to the woman, who’s crouched down and petting the dog. “We’ll take him.”

There’s paperwork involved, but fifteen minutes and a check later, they’re getting Cy into the back seat of Sean’s car.


	29. Chapter 29

“Do you have any idea how I should go about figuring out if one of these guys is our rat?” Sean asks on Monday morning.

Queenan takes a moment to answer. “Pry.”

“Oh, _that’s_ going to make me popular.”

“I thought you weren’t worried about it.”

“I’m not that worried,” Sean says. “I just don’t know how well it’s going to work.”

Queenan takes off his glasses and slides them into his shirt pocket. “You can’t look at medical records, especially of their families, but you can look into their finances.”

“Wouldn’t I need a court order?”

“That’s why you need to narrow it down first.”

Sean rubs his forehead. “This is going to take forever.”

Queenan merely smiles and takes his glasses back out of his pocket.

The only fortunate thing about the troopers he’s looking into is that none of them are people he knows outside work. He’d feel kind of shitty, investigating someone he gets along with.

Sean doesn’t actually know why Queenan has him focusing on these seven. All seven troopers are from Southie, which is the only factor they all have in common. Three of them have ties to Costello through their parents, he discovers by the end of the day, and separates those files out to look at more closely the next day.

Tuesday’s research is interrupted by getting Hardison to her safe house and making sure it’s actually safe, plus meeting with Brown and Olson, but whenever they’re in the office, Sean is in front of his computer, reading the three troopers’ complete files. One of them was in on that raid on the gun sale that never happened, a Larry Dwyer. Sean can’t place him even from his photo, but he’s a detective; he would have been in on the meetings about the raid.

“Larry Dwyer,” he says to Queenan just before five.

Queenan looks up at him. “You think we have him.”

“I hope like fuck.”

“I hope you didn’t have plans. Tell me why it’s Larry Dwyer.”

Going through it only takes about ten minutes, but they spend another thirty talking through what they can do to prove it. The solution, at least for now, that they agree on is getting a wiretap on his home phone and turning the mess over to Internal Affairs, which they deal with on Wednesday.

Detectives Christopher Hull and William Hildebrand get the case, and Hull says, “It would help if you sent disinformation through SIU again.”

“We can do that,” Sean says; he has this meeting all to himself.

Hull nods. “We’ll let you know if anything comes up by the middle of next week.”

Unfortunately, they can’t use the same yacht story as the last time they sent disinformation through the pipeline. Sean mulls over that problem as he leaves Internal Affairs for SIU’s floor again.

“We need disinformation,” he tells Queenan when he gets there.

Queenan looks thoughtful. “We could do a gun buy.”

“Buy or sell?”

“Buy. Semi-automatics and sniper rifles. Let’s say it’s going to happen next Monday night.”

Sean nods. “Okay. Where?”

“The docks.”

“I’ll pass that around.”

“Thank you, Sean. I know this isn’t fun.”

“Hey, better me doing it than anyone else. They’d get mad at you.”

Queenan laughs. “They would. Go try to find our rat.”

“Yes sir.”

He has to admit, he takes a certain glee in giving it to Ellerby first.

Queenan’s cell won’t stop ringing on Thursday afternoon, not until all three undercovers in with Costello have called in. Every one of them asks for an emergency meet, and they do those into the evening. All three of them have the same issue: French and Costello are both furious about there being an apparent rat because of this thing about a gun buy on Monday.

“You think there’s something to it?” Sean asks when they leave Olson.

“Could be, but none of them know about it. There isn’t a whole lot we can do without a where and when.”

Sean shrugs. “Pick up patrols around the docks?”

“I’ll pass it off to the city.”

On Tuesday, Hildebrand calls Sean. “Dwyer hasn’t made any calls to Costello. Did you send that disinformation out?”

“Yeah.”

“It doesn’t look like he’s your guy, Sergeant.”

“Thanks, Detective.” Once off the phone, he leaves his office for Queenan’s. “It’s not Dwyer.”

Queenan mutters, “Damn it.” In a more normal tone of voice, he continues, “We’ll have to keep looking.”

Sean nods. “That’s fun.”

“It’s part of the job.”

“Yeah,” Sean says. “I know.” It doesn’t mean he has to like it, though.


	30. Coda

Eleven goddamn years, and they’re finally getting around to this.

Same-sex marriage has been legal in Massachusetts for five years, but they just didn’t bother back then, even though they’d been wearing rings for a couple of years by the time Romney signed it into law. They were both busy, Robert with his promotion and Sean with managing problems in the unit while Queenan worked even bigger issues, and then… then there was 2006 and the hardest goddamn funeral any of them have ever attended.

Sean doesn’t know how Mrs. Queenan kept going. Patrick, in his last year of law school, probably helped. So did Sandy, who was four and didn’t really understand what happened to her Grandpa Charlie. Jake was only a year old and didn’t seem to realize anything bad had happened, just that he had to make Grandma Beth feel better with his sticky-sweet kisses and cuddling up to her.

After that, neither of them brought it up. It never felt right, not with the captain in the ground.

It took Patrick finally saying, “I have a _baby_ , Sean. When are you making an honest man of Robert?” for it to finally happen.

Now, they’re in Mrs. Queenan’s back yard, Sandy throwing flowers everywhere because she insisted she be her fathers’ flower girl, and a justice of the peace is asking, “Do you, Robert Messer, take Sean Dignam as your husband?”

The bastard hems and haws before saying, “I do commit myself to a cop for as long as he lives.”

Out of sight of all the kids, except maybe Jamie because she snickers, and that doesn’t matter because she’s fifteen, Sean flips him off.

The justice of the peace just continues. “Do you, Sean Dignam, take Robert Messer as your husband?”

“Boring as his job is,” Sean says, “I guess I do. I mean, we have kids.”

Robert laughs, and the justice glances between them, an eyebrow raised. Even so, she says, “I declare you spouses. You may kiss.”

They do, hard, and it’s enough to make Jake say, “Ewwwwww, Daddies, stop.”

That makes their entire family laugh, even Jenny’s two-year-old, Allie.

Patrick signs as one witness, and no one addresses who he’s signing for; Carrie is their other witness. She presses a kiss to Sean’s cheek, whispering, “Congratulations. He’s good for you.”

“Thanks, Carrie.” Then each of them signs on their lines, and their justice signs on hers.

“You have to stay to have a piece of cake,” Mrs. Queenan says to her.

“I have another wedding,” she starts.

“Just a small one, then.” She bustles inside, and Patrick laughs. Sean has to join when he sees the expression on the justice’s face.

After the justice leaves, Nathan and Carl help Mrs. Queenan bring out the food, and Ursula and Ophelia get the cakes; Jenny and Patrick get drinks, while Patrick’s wife, Sheri, soothes their son.

They named him Charles, and he’s called Charlie; Sean can’t think of a more appropriate name for Patrick’s son.

All the kids, even Charlie, are good through lunch, and Sean’s beginning to think it’s a miracle. Then the cakes are cut and slices passed around, and a few bites in, Sandy bursts into tears because she dropped a piece on her new dress and has chocolate frosting down the front.

So it’s not a miracle, and Sean’s not going to finish his cake until Sandy’s calmed down, and then the other kids, from Maria and Joseph down to Allie, start up on bickering and crying, Jake starts chasing Therese, Stacy’s youngest daughter, and Sean is fucking glad they’re outside. Inside would be deafening.

Robert catches his eye after he finishes dabbing Sandy’s dress clean with soda water Mrs. Queenan had inside, and even with the kids being as loud as they know how, there’s a gleam promising what’s going to come later and a smile for what they’ve done today, and Sean smiles back.

No, not a miracle, but still a good fucking day.


End file.
